Perspectives
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: Begins as funny/cute lead into Johnlock, but then Sherlock is kidnapped. What happens when Sherlock's mind is forced, under duress, to delete John? Moriarty... An examination into the background of the criminal mastermind, through the push and pull of the detective and criminal's magnetic relationship, offering a new perspective of him. Don't worry, John's not finished yet.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock, I just like to play!

**Summary**: Begins as a lighthearted Johnlock fic, with Sherlock trying to deduce what John's problem is (him). However, what happens when Sherlock kidnapped by Moriarty and forced to delete John's memory? Jim is certain that he can mold Sherlock into the perfect partner (in more ways than one) if he can just remove John's anchoring presence from Sherlock's mind... What dark potential might lie within the detective when freed of his moral compass? This fic thoroughly explores some of the more emotional aspects of the magnetic pull between the detective and the criminal, going deep within Jim's past and giving his character a more rounded feel. So, there will be much Jimlock in here…but don't give up on John yet!

When this fic finally decides to end itself, I think that folks who like either Jimlock, Johnlock, or both will be satisfied. But members of one of those fandoms may have to wait until the very. last. chapter. to see the light again. And then after, I'll be starting the second book to this fic. Ha!

**Warning**: M/M, Johnlock, Jimlock, and my own brand of stupid writing.

**A/N**: I try for weekly updates, and manage sooner sometimes. Reviews and messages always give me the strength to stay up just a bit later to go for completion! Hint hint!

**Perspectives**

Warmth. Comfort. _Mmmmm…_ The weekend! For one very tired ex-army doctor, an extended sleep-in this morning was just what he would have ordered for any one of his own patients. Hands clasped over his abdomen, and duvet to his chest, he was as relaxed as he was ever likely to get nowadays. He smiled, eyes still closed, and felt quite content to just float in this in-between state of sleep and non-sleep for a while. And he did, but only for a few minutes. Best to get up before his flatmate awakened and realized the doctor had slept in. He didn't like it when Sherlock ever caught him sleeping. Experiments would generally ensue. Most often of a bizarre and oddly disquieting fashion. And messy. Always messy.

He rather liked this lazy feeling, though. No wonder Sherlock never picks up a job (besides the fact that he'd be fired shortly after hiring on). _Maybe I could start cutting down on how many days a week I take at the clinic?_ he thought as he put off waking for just another minute. He sighed inwardly, his already-closed eyes scrunching up, _Nah, as soon as I did, Sherlock would break things, and we'd need the extra money to fix something. Or replace it entirely…_ He shook his head, so much for daydreams of semi-retirement; time to get up and make sure the overgrown child he lived with did something productive with his time today. Like _**not**_ seeing how far an egg could be projected through a window by use of a sock as a sling. John's sock. _Never gonna be able to wear that sock again_, he thought whimsically. Because for all that the detective's experiments and social inadequacies annoyed him and created problems, so too did they amuse and endear him to the younger man. Life, was never boring. Then he opened his eyes.

His hands shot down to his sides in alarm, grasping tightly to the covers. Adrenaline burst through his arteries, speeding his heart and heightening his awareness. Blood, so much of it. It covered the ceiling in great sprays. And part of the wall by the window, running down toward the floorboards. Fear chased his previous happy thoughts away. He gasped in a bit of air and was about to scream for the flat's other hopefully-living occupant when he noticed his left hand was touching something, and he turned to find a certain dark haired detective lying beside him with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if contemplating a masterful sculpture or oil canvas. John screamed, a most manful yell if you asked him later, and promptly fell off the side of the bed hitting the ground with an eye opening THUMP. He groaned.

"John," came the unperturbed baritone, "tell me the first thoughts that flitted through your mind as you saw that."

"Ungghhhh," the doctor moaned into his floorboards.

"Well, you can wait if you want, but it's better for the observations to come out now, while they're still fresh in your mind." No further moan was forthcoming.

The only thing "fresh" in his mind at the moment was throttling the taller man until one of them felt better. Preferably himself, though he imagined the detective would find some use for the data gathered on how much pressure was needed to actually render him unconscious. John glared at his hands, now fisted in anger against the floor. _Was I seriously just thinking about how interesting it is to have him pull these sorts of things_? _Shit_. He pushed up and stood to look over the serenely composed man lying on his bed. So relaxed, as if he hadn't just sent another human being into a terror of pre-heart attack proportions. Those mercurial eyes found his with a slight turn of the pale face.

"Well?"

"Sherlock, hhhmmm…get. out."

"I hardly see how…"

"Get. Out!"

"Yes fine. Waste of pig's blood then. Don't know where I'm going to find such a quantity again so soon. I only needed a bit of input from an outside perspective. These trials don't run themselves…" he continued to grouse as he left John's room and hurried down the stairs. Probably to pick up on some other abandoned project that would burn a hole in something. John sat down on the edge of his bed, ran his hand through his short cropped hair, and blew out a loud breath as he stared on at the drippy bits of blood that had run down the wall and onto the floor. He nodded, then blinked; or perhaps he closed his eyes for a very long time, considering how long said blink lasted. He almost smiled, but ended up smirking instead. _Messy_.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Downstairs, Sherlock reclined himself along the couch after a (very graceful) flop. "Bored!" he called out to the empty room, closing his eyes. He flicked the end of his dressing gown agitatedly off of himself and squirmed a bit. His eyes reopened, but were unfocused as he looked within. What was John's issue lately anyway? Something was off. Nothing definite. Nothing tangible. Nothing he could just outright _ask_ about. Certainly not that. He had tried that already, much good it did him…

**2 days earlier:**

John came down the hall toweling his hair dry, one hand operating the towel, the other clasping the paper he planned on thoroughly reading the crap out of this morning. The last few had fueled the fire for the detective's "cooking" lessons, in which he had taught himself. And failed. The doctor was looking over the front page, bad news as usual, all of it, when…

"Ah, John! What's the matter with you lately anyway?" cried an exuberant Sherlock as he dropped several feet from the ceiling, whereon he had installed two hand bars to hang from late last night. He landed within a foot of John as the doctor came out of the hall and into the living area. The older man staggered back in shock, heart racing. Until his mind cleared up what had happened and explained it to the rest of him. Then he promptly restored himself, walked right up to the dark haired man, and whacked him on the nose like a bad bad doggy. He pushed his way by a now-bewildered detective and sat down to read _his_ paper.

**Present:**

Yes, that direct approach hadn't gone well at all. And he had thought he was being very casual and non-confrontational about the whole thing. Pah! There was no accounting for people's strange reactions to his friendly overtures. John's behavior was bothersome, though, and he really did worry that something was truly wrong under the surface. It wasn't anything big. Just little things, like how John wasn't quite as friendly to strangers, or how he didn't even fight Angelo anymore at the candle placement on their table. He just stared at it in what one could almost call defeat. He fought more with the stupid checkout machines at the Tesco. He'd actually broken one last time. He didn't tell Sherlock that, but the younger man deduced it instantly. He hadn't seen John out on a date, or even talking about prospective dates, for at least five months now. Perhaps a sort of midlife crisis? _Good luck bringing that up in conversation_…. Then an idea struck him. He hadn't had a case in a good while, and he _was_ bored, so perhaps this could be the case of John Watson? Obviously John was suffering from something so subtle that he couldn't even recognize it for himself. So perhaps an outside perspective would be of value? Yes! He'd deduce his friend's problem soon enough, and then they'd be back to normal, and he wouldn't have to worry. He didn't like worrying. It made him feel vulnerable. Normal. Human. His eyes narrowed in distaste. _Disgusting_.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had plotted and pondered all day as John went out for their errands, paying bills, milk and such. And for once, he was glad of John's absence, if only because it kept the other man from noticing Sherlock noticing _him_. His mind was stuck in a circular pattern, coming around always to begin right back with the same question. What is it that is so _off_ about the doctor? He couldn't quite pin down any one specific thing. And the more he tried to define it, the more elusive it became, dissipating like fog in sunlight. The way John walked just a few inches off of his usual predictable path from the bedroom to the kitchen in the morning. The way he set he his cup with the handle an inch more to the left. The way he now started down the stairs with his left foot instead of the right. The way he crossed and uncrossed his legs more often than he ever had before. What was it?! Sherlock groaned aloud and relaxed into his armchair, head thrown back to stare unseeing at the ceiling, eventually closing his eyes. He lost himself in the thoroughfares of his mind palace within moments and the inner sanctity it possessed, staying that way for an hour or more before returning to the waking world.

Then an idea came to him, and if his eyes had been open, they would have squinted in thought. Perhaps he should _write down_ all of these little differences he was coming up with and look at them all together on one page. That could be useful for finding some sort of correlation between the oddities. _Right, let's do that_. "John. Pen." he said to the empty room, palm upraised. His eye cracked open and rolled sideways to scan the living area. _Oh yes. Milk. Tesco. Boring_. His head came back up and forward, and he saw the pen and paper lying across the way on the coffee table by the couch. He sighed, _Too far. So much for that idea_.

Then he saw John's laptop sitting right across from him on the other man's chair. _Perfect_! He quickly had it open and was ready to research…something. But what? Damn. He sunk back into the chair as he thought. _All this time evaluating a problem and getting nowhere can mean only one thing to me_. Then he made a face as he thought, _Emotions_. Of course! The sure way to confound the world's only consulting detective would be to involve some sort of deeply seated emotional connection with the issue. Feelings were so alien and intrusive to Sherlock; he couldn't fathom them. Not because he never felt anything, but because he was so quick to grind them out and redirect them that he never actually allowed himself to experience them . They were merely rechanneled to another venue of his. Or maybe they became confined within a small storage space that grew ever more narrow as the years went by?... He shrugged half-heartedly. Who cares?

So, emotions it is then. _Need expert consultation_. He popped up the search bar. _Hmmm. How to word this? Help with an emotional person? No. He's not just another person. My friend is emotional? No. He's not just a "friend," he's THE friend. Those don't fit. It needs to be specific to our particular relationship for it to hold any value. He is my friend, my best friend, my colleague, my equal… Perhaps…ah! Partner. John is my partner! In crime, in detective work, in adventure, and also as a flatmate. There we go_! He typed: "I don't understand my partner's emotional state." Several results popped up, and the detective began to scan them all for what he was looking for. And after several minutes scrolling around, his eyes fell upon what he sought. The title line read: "Emotional issues with your partner? Let us help! Chat with our experts in emotional affairs." Perfect! He opened a chat box and started to answer the basic questions that would direct him to the appropriate chat host.

Your sex: Male. _I guess they do need to know that_. Length of current relationship: 2 years. _I suppose that's what they mean, _he thought as he typed the number in, _how long we've been friends. _Marriage status: Not. _What an odd question for an emotional assistance site_. Select the best answer: Is this in regard to Sex, Communication, Career, Infidelity, Trust Issues, Finances, or Emotional Distancing? The detective pursed his lips and leaned forward. _Well, I suppose it could be under "career" due to us working together on cases_. But then he moved the mouse pointer away from that selection as he rethought, _Or maybe it should be "emotional distancing?" _He thought for a split second_. Yes. I'm positive. Because if my emotions weren't so __**distanced**__ from myself, then I would be able to resolve this issue on my own_. He clicked the final question's box and submitted his answers.

Within 20 seconds, a line of text within a chat box appeared on his screen, saying, "Hi, I'm Cyndy! How can I help you through your relationship issue today?" Sherlock made a slight bemused smirk. _Must be an American site; they word their questions so oddly. Relationship issues. Do they say "relationship" in regard to all of their friendships? Foolish_. He typed:

**My partner has been acting rather strangely lately. Nothing specific, just off**.

_Are they often angry or depressed?_

**No. Simply apathetic it seems**.

_Oh. I see you've been with each other for 2 years. Probably needs some special attention._

**Special attention. Like what**?

_Surprises are always nice._

**I tried a surprise and it backfired. Badly. Got thwacked with a newspaper**.

_Oh! Goodness! What did you try?_

**I dropped from the ceiling and asked a question**.

_Oh. Well, I meant like buying little gifts or something. You know, to show appreciation._

**Oh. People do that sort of thing for their partners**?

_Yes. All the time. The key is to find what the other person really loves, admires, and likes. Then, try to create small ways of working them into your routine to let them know that you pay attention to these kinds of details. Makes people feel special._

**Hmm. Well, I shall give it a try**.

And with that, he snapped the laptop shut, leaving Cyndy hanging on the other end. _Things about John. Things that he likes_. He snickered to himself. _Jumpers and boring women. No need for more of those, though._ He knew some of the crap telly shows the doctor watched, but that hardly seemed inspiring. And the older man's favored brand of tea didn't spark any ideas for him either. _Something he loves; something that I can use to show him I notice things about him_. This shouldn't be so hard. He was in the business of noticing things about people, whether they wanted it or not. He bent forward, roughing up his dark curls as if he could shake ideas from them. He then raked his hands down his face, ending with them steepled beneath his chin. How brain-blastingly tepid his mind seemed at this moment. He needed _something_. Something big. Something John wouldn't expect. And then…_Yes! That's it! _He leaped to his feet, laptop falling to the rug_. Christmas!_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John returned to the flat in the late afternoon with bags of shopping filling his arms. Sherlock, of course, was nowhere to be seen, and not about to trot down the stairs to help anyway. He sighed as he made his slow and careful way up to the flat, stopping by Mrs. Hudson's door first to place the bread he had picked up for her outside of it. He struggled at the last two steps, getting his feet twisted about each other, but finally pushed into the hall and kitchen without spilling everything onto the floor.

Odd how quiet it was. But he pushed the thought away. Sherlock must have gone out. At least he'd be able to relax for a small bit, maybe have some tea and a bit of crap telly before dinner. Happy with that course of events, he finished putting things up and was about to start thinking of dinner plans for later when a blinking caught his eye. _Eh?_ And he turned to the living area, where the door had been slid mostly shut, obstructing the view. There were strange lights, like that of a police car, flashing through the room it seemed. _Wonder what the police are doing on our street?_ And then a small chill went through him as he considered what he had just thought. He quickly walked to the door and slid it aside, full of trepidation, and stepped into something totally unexpected.

He stared in shock, in awe, in surprise, in complete flabbergastedness at…at….Christmas. _What the hell?_ There, all over their living area, was just about every type of Christmas decoration one person could conceivably purchase and cram into one room. There were stockings on the fireplace, tinsel running the length of the room and ringing the windows, colored lights EVERYWHERE (even the furniture), a big plastic glowing Santa in between the armchairs, an inflatable snowman at the door, glittering confetti scattered about the entire floor, silver glowing stars suspended from the ceiling, and dozens upon dozens of other decorations piled into the space. The center of the room held a tree of ten feet, sprayed with fake snow and shining with white lights. _What. Is. This!?_

"Happy Christmas!" cried Sherlock, suddenly bursting from behind the tree, complete with a red Santa hat and a jingling bell held within one hand. He was smiling one of those indescribable smiles that led one to think one of two things had happened: 1) he had finally gone insane. 2) he had killed someone and was trying to distract attention away from it. Either way, no good. John looked him over, his initial surprise dwindling as he solidly remembered just how strange his flatmate could be. He leveled his gaze at the beaming detective.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"What is this?" the doctor asked slowly, and with a small, but curt, gesture of his hand.

"Christmas, John."

"Mmhmm." Frowning, eyes closed, head down, fist clenched as he thought of the mess.

"Don't you like it?"

"I don't understand it," slipped through clenched teeth.

"It's Christmas!"

"Sherlock. It's July."

"….?"

"You _really_ don't…nevermind."

John turned and walked back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to stand there wondering what had just happened. Where was the happy exclamation that his favorite holiday had come to visit in the middle of the year? Where was the thank you, Sherlock, you've really made my day? I'm so happy that you did this? I'm all better now, so we can continue on like nothing was ever wrong in the first place? His shoulders slumped. Where had he gone wrong? John loved Christmas. He thought for a bit, then decided that maybe this just hadn't been part of the problem. That's why it hadn't worked. Normally, John would have surely been overjoyed. But since John was Odd-John now, he reacted differently. So, it wasn't that John just needed a happy little surprise to fix the issue. Well then. What next? He glanced at the kitchen, where John was bashing pots around ferociously, then his eyes flicked to the laptop. _Better ask Cyndy what her next bit of advice is. Don't worry, John, I'll fix this. Fix you._


	3. Chapter 3

Day 3…

**Cyndy?**

Several seconds went by before a reply came on the chat screen. He positioned and repositioned himself in the chair as he waited, unable to cease fidgeting.

_This is Robert, how may I assist you with your relationship issues today?_

**You're not Cyndy.**

_No. But I can help you if…_

**I need Cyndy. She is already familiar with my case, and I do not think this is the time or place to bring new people into the issues being discussed. It is basic continuity of care. I have already established a rapport with Cyndy and believe her to be of good, sound mind. Yourself, I have no background or data for, and so your knowledge, and therefore advice, is suspect.**

…..

**Get Cyndy.**

….

….

….

_This is Cyndy, how may I assist you with your relationship issues today?_

**Ah, Cyndy. Thank goodness. Some Robert person was trying to analyze the situation in which you've already begun to be of service.**

_Well…_

_Well, I am ready to help you again. Remind me of your issue and where you are with it?_

**I told you that my partner is rather apathetic lately, and you recommended I first try something surprising.**

_Oh, okay. So how did that go?_

**Horribly. Shouting. He tore some of it down. Said I made a mess. Stomped off and didn't speak for the rest of the night.**

_Oh. Well. I guess surprises aren't his thing then. How about something interesting for the two of you to do together? Something you both like?_

**Hmm. Has promise. I shall keep you updated on the progress.**

And he snapped the laptop closed, cutting Cyndy off once again. _Something we both like?_ His mind wove over their usual activities together and what seemed to make John happy. Of course, John was a fairly positive man in general, so many things seemed to make him happy, which complicated it a bit. How to pick from so many? _I should focus instead on something that __**I**__ like to do that __**he**__ wouldn't be averse to_. It took him all of three minutes to leap from his seated position in his armchair, pumped full of the ingenious idea he had. _Have to call Molly_. His heart beat faster at the thought of solving John's case with such a simple activity. The clock showed ten past two. Should be enough time. He glanced around the flat. _Where to do it?_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John came home from work feeling positively wrung out of all sympathy for the human race. Such strange patients he had. He shook his head. The last lady that had come in was the winner. She hadn't had sex in over 3 years, (_join the ever growing crowd of the celibate, _he thought), and the other night she had done it for the first time since then. And she said that her partner had been too large for her, and now she was chafing "down there." Really... _At least you're getting some_, he thought, rather jealous of the large woman. He sighed as he put the key in the door, thinking of how badly he'd reacted yesterday.

_He was only trying to be nice, in his own strange way. He's like a child sometimes, and I need to stop reacting so suddenly. Maybe I'll apologize after dinner. He's probably in a snit and gone off somewhere anyway_, he thought as he pushed in and began to climb the stairs. He hung his coat on the hook as he passed by and spared a glance for Mrs. Hudson's flat. _Should maybe check on her, too. She probably heard all the yelling I did and chose to stay away for a while_.

His mind was browsing over thoughts of bills, chores, and other mundane matters when he opened the door of the flat to find himself almost walking right on top of a very overweight man lying on the floor. He did a double-take. A very _dead_ overweight man lying on the floor. He backpedaled and almost fell into the detective's arms as the other man came up from behind him.

"John. You're home a bit early. Well, no matter! What do you see?"

"I'm….I…um… Sherlock. There is a dead man. On our floor. Why…?" It seemed not even a question as it left his mouth.

"Very succinct, John. He _is_ dead, but I was hoping to go a bit further."

"Where did he come from?!"

"Ah, the right question. He died two days ago in a very questionable 'massage parlor,' and now he is here."

John growled, yes _growled_, as he put his face down and massaged his temple. Had he really just been thinking that _he_ would be the one to apologize here? _Don't hit him, don't hit him, don't hit him…_

"So you're telling me, that there is…a dead man…in our flat…on the floor…because…?"

"Practice, John! C'mon! Deduce with me! I know you enjoy it, so go on, this one's for you. I brought him here special…so you….could…um, John? Why are you holding your keys that way?"

John glanced down at his hand where he saw that his keys appeared to be readying themselves for battle, knuckles white as he practically strangled them. He sighed, shoulders slumping, and walked over, past the dead man, and dropped them on the chair table. He stayed facing away from Sherlock and into the fireplace for several moments, breathing in and out. Sherlock remained beside the dead man looking alternately at John and then the body at his feet. He sensed something was amiss. _Have I misjudged?_ No, that couldn't be it. _John loves cases, and since I haven't had one in a while, I know he would normally appreciate this. _Something else is wrong, then. A confounding variable_. Ah! He must've had a bad day in the clinic, and he's too tired; and therefore, he's angry that he's missing this opportunity._ Yes, that's it. _I suppose I would be put out, too._ He stepped toward John just a bit before speaking.

"John, I can see now that I've caught you at a bad time. I'm sorry. I'll just take this back, and we'll have dinner and watch crap telly in a bit, alright? Sorry you didn't get to enjoy it, but I'll make sure next time that you haven't had such a trying day first."

Suddenly, there was a voice drifting up the stairs, "Oo hoo! Boys! I've got some fresh cakes on their way up to you! Look out now!" And John's mind buzzed to a stop. Mrs. Hudson? _Oh, shit_. He looked to the body and then to the door. The detective remained motionless, watching him with seeming bemusement as the doctor suddenly leaped forward and ran to slam the door shut. John leaned back against it and called out to his landlady.

"Oh, very, um, good of you, Mrs. Hudson! Thank you. But, um… Me and Sherlock are….um, rather engaged in…something, at the moment. So…could I come down for them…in just a minute…later? Please?"

He listened intently as her footsteps stopped just before their door. A momentary silence passed before she said, with an implied wink in her voice, "Oh, I understand, John! I didn't see a thing! You two just continue on with your _something_, and I'll be downstairs when you're ready for those cakes!" She even tittered a little in laughter as her voice began retreating down to her own flat. John's head hit the door as he realized what she thought of them.

"No! It's not that! Mrs. Hudson? Are you still there? Hello?! I'm _not_ ga…." Enormous sigh, and another knocking of the head against the wood of the door. "Damn; I give up." He turned to face his friend, who wore something of a quizzical expression now, and then he walked back over to his chair, preferring not to remain close to the corpse.

Sherlock shrugged at John's behavior and continued on as if Mrs. Hudson hadn't ever interrupted them in the first place. He began to struggle with dragging the poor man's naked corpse toward the stairs, utilizing the sheet that had been placed beneath it to facilitate sliding. John came to his senses, though, upon remembering the "next time" portion of Sherlock's interrupted apology. _Next time?! _Fists clenched at his sides.He could feel his face turning redder by the minute, and he spun around just as the dead man's feet were leaving the room.

"No! No 'next time!' Not _this_, Sherlock! This is….is…more than even a bit not good. It's horrid!"

John angrily stomped over and through into the kitchen, banging pots and things around as he searched for things to cook the living hell out of. Maybe some offending vegetables he could mutilate with a knife, or a fork, or hell, whatever else was handy. Bare hands was starting to look appealing at the moment. And he called out, just as Sherlock was about to go out through the back of the ground floor of the flat, "It's awful, you bringing that man here. Judging from the overall appearance of his health, and the condition of his, er, um, member…the poor sod obviously was just having it off at the 'massage parlor' and had a heart attack during it. It's not _right_ bringing that kind of shame down on the deceased, Sherlock!" More banging, slamming, and then some chopping followed the statement.

The angry and admonishing words floated down to the detective. And true, they were meant to be punitive in nature. But what Sherlock heard was: Unhealthy, overweight, late fifty-ish, deceased male with obvious signs of arousal that had been halted abruptly. _Very_ abruptly. Probably mid-coitus. And he had subsequently died. From a cardiac arrest. _Obviously_. He grinned to himself as he almost tripped and fell over the doorstep while dragging the body through to the back alley. He was so proud of John!


	4. Chapter 4

Day 4…

**Where are you, Cyndy?**

**I have news, and I need more suggestions. **

**Don't make me hack your computer.**

**I will.**

_Hello? Sorry, I just got off the chat with another client._

**I'm here now. Delete them.**

_Of course, Mr. Redbeard. How can I help you today then? Jog my memory; are you the one who was going to be doing something fun together with his partner?_

**Redbeard is the ridiculous screen name I was forced to use to sign up here. It is childish and rather fantasy bound. Please refrain from referring to me with it. **

_Alright. Um, what shall I call you then?_

…..

…..

…..

**Redbeard is fine. Nevermind.**

_So anyway, sir, are you the one who was supposed to be doing something fun with his partner?_

**Yes. But I don't see how you can fail to remember such things. Honestly, how many people can possibly be asking you for advice every day other than myself? There can't be so many in my position.**

_Just speaking for myself, I generally end up chatting with anywhere from 20-50 clients per day._

…..

…..

**I see. This only serves to exhibit your expertise to me. It is invaluable, which is why I refuse any of your other associates.**

_Thank you, I guess. So how did it go with the idea to do something together?_

**This time, it worked somewhat. He acted as though he didn't like it at first, but by the end of the activity, he was participating.**

_Oh, well good then. Seems like we're on the right track. He likes to do things with you, so you should definitely try to incorporate that with any future attempts at fixing this issue._

**Yes well, still not fixed. What next? Don't be boring.**

_Well, have you tried maybe doing something for him that he could never do for himself? Not just something he likes, but something he'd never do for himself. _

**I don't understand. If you like something, why not do it? What prevents you?**

_For example, some people may like the idea of going to a spa or a resort, but they would never spend their own money on something like that for themselves. _

**Ah, I see. Something John can't do, or can't afford, for himself. Yes. **

_So his name is John?_

**No.**

_Could you really hack my work computer?_

…..

_Hello?_

_Gone again I see_.

Sherlock's mind worked fiercely. Perfect. This was perfection! He whipped his phone from his pocket and began to energetically text Mycroft.

**My, you there? -SH**

…**..**

**Yes, what brother dear? –MH**

**I need something. –SH**

**Something for John. –SH**

**Oh? Intriguing… -MH**

**Shut up. I'll owe you. –SH**

**Then I look forward to the details… -MH**

Sherlock tucked his phone back in his pocket, settling down in front of the laptop again. He opened another window over the one with Cyndy's last question hovering in it so as to email the information to Mycroft. _Excellent, _he thought as he typed in John's bank account information. _John won't have to work as much after this. So we can spend more time on cases together_. Effectively, what he was sending Mycroft would get John's debts settled and cleared. For while the doctor himself had made no large material purchases, his sister, Harry, had gotten in far too deep a few times and had caused John to take out a large loan to cover her. So he was essentially in debt for someone else. _Ridiculous_, Sherlock thought as he smiled inwardly, completing the last line.

He skipped down to a new paragraph and began the second half of his request. This part would just be icing on the cake, but it was essential nonetheless. He cross-checked himself on the internet, to be sure that his aim was guided to the correct identity. And once confirmed, he sent the email off to Mycroft and texted to let him know it was done and on its way to him. It took a bare moment for the British Government to reply via text once he had read the email.

**My my. That will be some favor you owe me, Sherlock. –MH**

…**..**

…**..**

**Very well. Consider it done. –MH**

Sherlock smiled to himself as he leaned back and waited for John to come home…

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John's feet ached. His head ached. His back ached. His shoulders ached. Oh, and his ass ached; not for any particular reason. He supposed his backside just wanted to get in on the aching action, too. What a day in the clinic! Snooty, snotty people everywhere. No one wanted to just wrap in a blanket and eat soup at home anymore when they got a cold. No. They all wanted an instant fix. An enchanted wand. A magic pill. And they didn't like it when they were told that they needed to A) go home and wrap in a blanket, and B) eat some soup. He sighed loudly as he hung his coat on the hook. _God save me. If the flat's in flames from Sherlock's experiments, I think I'll just lie down and let them burn me to ashes_.

He had placed one heavy foot on the first step when suddenly the detective burst forth from the door above, almost tumbling down the stairs in his haste. If John hadn't been so bone tired, it would have been entertaining actually, watching the usually fluid and graceful Sherlock Holmes catch himself awkwardly on the railing, slip down to a seated position, and then slide bumpily down a few of the stairs to where John was.

"John. C'mon! There's something you need to see. Or do. I'm not sure which. Maybe both."

"Sherlock, I'm really not…."

"No no no, John. You need to come _now_. This minute. Come." And the younger man pushed past him and was on to the door where he threw it open and turned to feign great patience with the doctor. John looked forlornly up at the entrance to the flat, sighed once more with his head down, and then pivoted to follow his friend. Whatever it is, it must be exciting. _And maybe that will take my mind off of this shit day_.

Sherlock had bounded out of the door as soon as he ascertained that John really was following him. And lo and behold, as usual, John saw a taxi pull right up as soon as the tall man hailed. _How does he do that? I mean, really, I'm not __**that**__ short_… He groused about in his head as he climbed in, just missing where Sherlock had informed the driver to take them. _Wonder if I get to know before we get there_? And then he just shut that thought out. It didn't matter really. As long as he wasn't at work, at _**that**_ _**place**_, he was okay for now. His head whipped toward the detective as a question directed at himself got repeated.

"The name of that man, John, the one you told me was so horrible to you in the military? It was Martin Pendek, right?

"Huh?"

"You told me a while back that there was a man named Martin Pendek who had raped two of your female friends and had tried to get you kicked out of the service. He was never actually convicted. That was his name, correct?"

"Um, yeah. Yes, it is. Was. Whatever. Why?"

"No reason. Just rearranging files in my mind and came across it."

The detective turned to stare out the window as John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. _What is going on with him? First all this weird nonsense about Christmas, then a body, now we're off to God knows where and he's dredging up memories of bad people. Something's up with him._ But the detective just continued to stare off into the distance as the city passed them by, nothing suspicious about him at all. Except that he was Sherlock Holmes…

John's line of mental inquiry came to halt as they pulled up in front of the bank, causing the doctor to look quizzically at the detective as they did. Had there been a robbery? That seemed somehow too boring for Sherlock. So maybe a robbery turned homicide? But there were no officers to be seen around the perimeter. Perhaps it was just another private-hire job like the Blind Banker case? He paid the cabbie as Sherlock once again leapt away, like an eager puppy brought down to the beach. And he caught up with him as he stood outside of the large double doors of glass.

He was just about to ask Sherlock about this case, when the other man smiled, as if deliberately trying to evade speaking, and pushed the doors open, entering and heading immediately for one of the private rooms in the back where loan officers were located. Sherlock went to the small desk in front of all the little offices and handed his ID to the receptionist, who phoned someone after glancing at it. _Great, he's probably been here before and caused a ruckus_, John thought as he waited in tense silence.

From a back hallway, a tall man with silver hair emerged. Immaculately clad in suit and tie, he reached out his hand to Sherlock, saying, "Ah, he called just before you got here, and I've just managed to bring all the paperwork together for signing." The man then turned to John, saying, "And you must be the lucky Dr. John Watson? Pleasure to meet you. My name is Robbie Silvent, and I will be assisting you with this closing." The man had turned back to Sherlock and motioned for them to follow him into one of the offices, leaving John to follow after, mouthing the word: _Closing_?

They sat across from Mr. Silvent, and he slid a small stack of paperwork towards them before exclaiming, "Oh, excuse me, I forgot to bring a pen. How ridiculous. Just look over these, and I'll be right back." And as he exited the room, John picked up the papers and saw what was on them. And freaked. To put it mildly. Standing as he did so, so he could look down at the puppy-eyed detective, he began to overload with words. Lots of them. Bad ones.

"Sherlock! What is this about?! And how did you…? When did…? There was supposed to be a… Harry didn't… Hhmm…" He collected himself, head down, with thumb and index finger to his forehead. Prioritize. There was only one immediate question needing answering.

"Why?"

Sherlock seemed almost shocked to hear this, but he answered all the same.

"Because you would never do this for yourself, John. Never be able to. And it's not fair to hold debt because of something someone else has done. And now, without it, you won't…John…John, are you listening? You've got that funny coloring again. Did you hear me? With this paid off, you won't have to…John? John….? ….."

John's mind was so filled with the shock of his private finances being violated that he first thought he would end up finally killing his friend after all. Where did he _get_ this idea? His hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes closed; he breathed slowly in and out. The loan official had started to come back in during this time, but a look from the detective had sent the man back out. And slowly, so slowly, John worked his mind around the concept of his private life being violated and dealt with it. Then he considered that his flatmate was very much like a child, and so he probably thought this was an okay thing to do. And actually, when he thought more on it, he could see that his emotionally constipated friend was trying very hard to make him happy for some reason he couldn't fathom. He sighed as he considered that he was going to need to create a rulebook for Sherlock to follow in order to prevent these sorts of things. Scratch that. Sherlock would just think it was a new game in which he was supposed to find ways around those very same rules. John thought that maybe he really _did_ deserve gifts and wellwishes on Father's Day. After all, he was raising one of the biggest children he had ever met.

He looked up at the younger man, seeing the tentative disappointment in his eyes because he had thought he was doing something good. Gah, this was ridiculous_. But still, he is my best friend. Better not crush him too bad._

"Sherlock, I can't accept this. It's not my money."

"Of course not. It's Mycroft's."

"What?! It's Mycro-?!… No. No. It doesn't matter whose it is. It's not _mine_. And if it came from Mycroft, then it's taxpayer money. Money that isn't mine by right. I can't take this. It will make me no better than those who just sit on welfare systems and live off of other taxpayers. Can't you see that? Please, Sherlock?"

"Are you sure we can't? It still seems fine to _me_."

"Of course I'm sure. Look, I wouldn't steal, right? And that's essentially what this would be. I'd be taking money from people who worked for it, and I can't have that. What if someone else needed that money? I don't want anyone to suffer on my account; not financially, mentally, or even physically." Sherlock twitched at that last line, interrupting for a question.

"Not even Martin Pendek?"

"I- What?"

"Martin Pendek. You wouldn't want him to suffer, even die for the pain he caused?"

"I, uh…no. No, I would want justice done. A trial and sentencing. I guess." This switch in conversation topic had thrown John off balance.

"I…see," said Sherlock thoughtfully, his hand suspiciously sliding behind his back. "I suppose you should tell Mr. Silvent," he said as he waved the man over from where he waited a little ways away from the room. "Just tell him you are second-thinking for now, John," he gestured toward the incoming employee, one hand remaining behind him. And as John focused his attention elsewhere, Sherlock texted with his hidden hand furiously.

**Wipe the news. Take out all mention of Pendek's sudden demise. Abort! -SH**

He waited anxiously as John chatted with Mr. Silvent. Finally, his phone vibrated as a response came in.

**Done and done, brother mine. I am growing confused of your motives of late. –MH **

Relief flooded through the detective. This case of John Watson was going terribly. Why did anyone ever willingly seek out friendship? Everything he had tried seemed to backfire. Although, he could tell, just at the end there, that John had been somewhat touched by the idea of Sherlock trying to do something nice for him. So it wasn't a total loss. He'd have to contact Cyndy right away tomorrow. Thank God John didn't read his news at night, so Mycroft had all night to rid the internet and other venues of the headline story: Grisly End Met by Military Rapist. What a waste of a favor…


	5. Chapter 5

Day 5…

This day, the air was warm and cheery; so rare an occurrence in a part of the world where windy and wet drafts tended to dominate. This day, a light breeze fluttered by, almost carelessly caressing the passerby on the sidewalk. This day, birds seemed to find reason in just about anything to break into song. And, if one sat on the banks of the Thames on _this_ day, the brilliance of the sunlight dancing amongst the sparkling wavelets could mesmerize their cares away. Such perfection as could be found in _this_ day was normally reserved for those among the Heavens…

_Ping-Crack_! The rock zinged off of the wall where one of those annoying avian creatures had just been attempting such mesmerizing feats on a certain consulting detective…who held a slingshot….already reloaded. His silvery-blue eyes darted back and forth as he sought out whether his threat had been taken seriously by the pack of disease-ridden vermin. Better to do one more just to be certain they had taken the message to heart. A slow draw back, an aim at one particularly fat pigeon, and…_Crash_! The rock sailed straight through a window several feet below the offending fiend. And much as the rock dropped once its impetus had been slowed, so did a certain dark haired detective hit the floor and crawl to hidden safety, out of the view of the deceased window across the way.

A few spare minutes later, John walked by on his way down to grab his coat and head out for work. He caught sight of Sherlock just as the other man was leaping back up to his feet and righting himself, in a most suspicious manner. The younger man gazed down around himself suddenly in a pitiful attempt at pretending he had been looking fiercely for something on the floor. The doctor's eyebrow quirked up at this, his expression asking, _And why are you looking like you just did something wrong?_

A tilt of the dark haired head and an innocent widening of the eyes asked back, _Why would I do anything wrong?_

Golden blonde brows drew down, almost frowning now, with an expression that said, _Come on_.

_Nope, nothing of the sort,_ says the drop of eye contact and flick of an elegant hand over a bit of imaginary dust on the sleeve.

Another drawing down of the blonde brow states that… John shook his head suddenly, "What the _hell_, Sherlock? Now you've got _me_ doing it! It's not enough to communicate nonverbally with your own brother; now you've got to train _me_?!" The detective stood remote, his ever-shifting eyes attempting to send yet another voiceless message, which was met by, "Unbelievable!" And the door slammed as John turned and jogged down the stairs, off to work. Sherlock merely quirked one side of his mouth upwards and spun to face the window once more, noting that ample time had passed so that the birds should be back to roost by now. He glanced at the clock as he snuck up to the open glass. _Too early_, he thought. _Cyndy is in America. I have at least another 4-5 hours before she'll be available_. His eyes narrowed as he watched a pigeon alight on a nearby pole. It shifted its weight for a second or so before settling. _Thwack_!

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Cyndy, where are you? **

…**..**

**Cyndy**

…**..**

**Cyndy**

…**..**

**Cyndy**

**Cyndy**

**Cyndy**

_Yes, I'm here! Sorry, I just got on shift_!

**I will have to locate your home number then, so we can converse at an earlier time**.

…..

…..

**That was a joke. I do make them from time to time. Do they not have jokes in America**?

_Oh right! LOL!_

_Wait a minute._

_How did you know I am in America?_

**So the last suggestion you made… It went…well, it went. He didn't approve of how I went about it, but he got the point, I'm sure.**

_Oh, good! Progress!_

**Yes. So I am looking for a more direct approach this time. Maybe. **

_You want to come on stronger? Well, that's good. Being direct is always appreciated I've found._

**Good. So what am I to do?**

_You really have not had much experience with these situations have you?_

**Irrelevant and incorrect. I have established relationships with many others before this.**

So what makes this one a special circumstance?

…..

…..

_Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I'm just trying to get a feel of where you're coming from_.

…..

**He's…**

**Well he's…**

**Different.**

**I'm quite a hard person to be around…**

_I'm getting that…_

…**much less live with. And for some reason, he stays**.

_Ah! Sounds like a perfect pairing!_

**Yes, I have often thought so. He ignores my…unusual tendencies. And he appreciates the things about me that seem to utterly annoy other people.**

_Yes, you meeting was definitely divine intervention._

**While I hold all theories of creation to be of interest, I do not particularly subscribe to any one. **

**But I accept your conviction nonetheless.**

_Um. Thanks. I think._

_But anyway, let's get back to helping you through this!_

**Yes, let's**.

_So, so far now we've picked an activity together, done something nice for him, shown him you remember particulars about his likes/dislikes…and you want to be more direct… _

_I know! When was the last time you two went out together?_

**A few days back.**

_Where did you go?_

**To the police station.**

…..

_Okay, but when have you gone out together recently just for fun?_

…..

**I don't know.**

_That could be part of the problem!_

**I don't see it.**

_Please, take this advice: If you really wanna push the issue a little bit more, then you've gotta go out together. Be seen, you know?_

**Not particularly, but you are the consulting expert in these matters**.

_Here, let me find you a place to hang out. Give me a minute_.

…..

Sherlock's mind worked as Cyndy did whatever she was doing. _When have we ever just hung out outside of the flat? I can't remember if we ever really have, excepting a night at Angelo's every now and again. But John is more of a social butterfly than I. Perhaps he misses all the bore of mingling with other parts of humanity. That would be just like him._ He sighed loudly. _Socializing. With…people._ He shuddered, but thought, _John would like it. Cyndy is right. Again. She's really quite good at this thing._ Then he saw the screen pop up another message.

_Okay. I've found it. Maybe. But I need to know a bit about your status. Financially speaking. _

_Sorry, it's just that the place I'm finding online is pretty exclusive. Probably would take some major bribery or knowing someone to get in to._

**No worries there. I can make it happen. What's the name?**

_Celtic Kaleidoscope. About a 30-45 minute drive from your location if my Google map is correct._

**What a horrendous name choice for a club. Are you sure?**

_Oh yes. It looks very…how do you Brits call it? Posh?_

**Yes. That is acceptable terminology.**

_It looks like just the place to really show it off._

**Very good then. I'll be in….**

_WAIT!_

…**touch. **

**What?**

_I was also going to tell you that if you're one of those who wears a typical type of dress, then you should change it up for this occasion._

**What do you mean? **

_I mean that if you usually dress up, then dress down. And if you normally dress down, then dress up. That'll really let him know you're aware of changes needing to be made and aren't afraid of trying new things_.

**Um. Alright. Are you sure it won't seem a bit…strange?**

_Not strange. Noticeable. That way he'll know you're making an effort._

**Very well. I shall suffer through it I imagine. **

**Ta!**

He snapped the laptop shut. Celtic Kaleidoscope? What rubbish! He pulled up the website. Even its slogan on the advertisement was inane. 'Where you can be yourself.' He snorted, _When is anyone NOT themselves?_ Stoically, he Googled the address, noted its location, and then whipped his phone from its hidey-hole in his pocket and began texting. The afternoon was still young. He had time to utilize Mycroft's influence.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mycroft looked up from his computer screen as his phone began to buzz with a message. He reached over and pulled it up for viewing. Sherlock. He closed his eyes when he saw the name of the sender. What now? He refocused and clicked the screen to open it up.

**Need access and/or passes for John and myself to a horrible sounding place called Celtic Kaleidoscope. Before tonight would be sufficient. -SH**

Mycroft stared at the phone in disbelief. _The Celtic… Sherlock?_ Surely he didn't know that it was… Or did he? His mind raced around all of the known facts about his little brother. All of the social ineptitudes constantly on display to the world. Quickly, he reached the conclusion that, no, Sherlock did _not_ _know_. A slow, and somewhat sinister, smile began to form on Mycroft's face. "Oh this is too good to be true…" he mumbled to himself as he replied.

**Certainly little brother. I'll have them sent over in an hour or so. -MH**

No reply. _Of course_. He sat back in his chair and stared at the screen where he had been planning the election of the next Prime Minister. _Mundane_. At least, it was compared to the events that would take place later that evening. Imagine. Sherlock. In a gay bar! With his eyes closed again, he pictured the hilarity of the situation. And when he opened them again, he flicked out his wrists, set fingers to keys, and accessed the CCTV circuits, and other video feeds, that the club had in its proximity or within itself. Oh no, he wouldn't miss this for the world…

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock was surprised at how easily he had gotten John to agree to going. Especially on such short notice. The pretense of researching human behavior in social situations hadn't even gotten a question from the doctor, so used to Sherlock's oddities. His plain Rolling Stones t-shirt and denim jeans had gotten an eyebrow raise, though. But still, John said nothing. And for this, the detective was grateful. Because it wouldn't do for the subject of his scrutiny to realize that he was the test subject, not the crowd in the club as he had been led to believe. And thus, the ruse of an experiment. So he had had to dress the part. Right?

They didn't even need to stand in line. The passes Mycroft had either purchased, forged, or stolen got them VIP access into a special entrance at the rear of the building away from the press of the crowd. They even had a small section with a semi-circular sofa and table all to themselves. And since they entered through a back way and avoided the line, they also missed the most obvious and blatant of homosexual signs and references plastered about the front of the building. True as it could be, and to Mycroft's endless mirth as he watched through multiple angles, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entered a gay nightclub together.

"This place sure is, um, upscale, Sherlock. Not too sure if I don't feel out of place, you know. Like I shouldn't be here." He had to practically yell over the music. Though they were a goodly distance from the DJ's stage and sitting in their roped off section, the noise level was still an impediment to conversation.

"Nonsense, John. Mycroft made sure we had the highest level of access to this club. If you're here, then you belong."

John studied the profile of his friend as the other man gazed out over the mass of human flesh that churned on the rather obstacle-course-like dance floor. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the building. It was enormous, and darkened, not too badly, but enough so that a light show of strobes and whatnot were very effective in disorienting the dancers. Here and there, in the corners, fog machines would let loose with a bit of mist, which further complicated matters. He observed there were multiple levels to the floor and made a mental note of it in case he drank a tad much later and decided to cross through. _Wouldn't do to break an ankle over an uneven club floor_, he thought to himself.

And thinking about the floor made him realize that he may as well grab a drink and get out there. There seemed to be plenty of women about. They all seemed to be having a good time with their female friends, too. There were quite a few who clustered near enough to each other that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. _Yeah, if they're gonna stay in groups or pairs like that, then I'm really gonna need some help to get started_. He stood up from their private couch to head over to one of the several bars that lined the walls, looking at Sherlock as he did.

"You want anything?"

"No."

"So are you just going to, well, sit here then?"

"Yes," the eyes hadn't left the crowd yet.

John huffed to himself, thinking that while Sherlock's odd form of friendship was a unique treasure, he also missed the company of his army mates who would hunt the floors with him for dance partners. But, Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he ever did things like that. In fact, the very idea set him to laughing as he got his drink and walked about the club, seeking his prey.

As for the detective, he had retreated within himself, not quite to his mind palace, but far enough that the noise no longer bothered him. _Was this what Cyndy meant? Bring him out and let him cavort about in this stinking hole?_ He didn't see how this had anything to do with anything, but _she_ was the expert. And, the detective did recognize that normal people in normal friendships did accompany one another on outings such as this. So maybe that was it. This was allowing John some feelings of normalcy. Very well. He would suffer through it. For John.

It was almost 45 minutes before John made his way back over to Sherlock's side, the detective appearing not to have moved an inch since he had left him there. All in all, John was just a bit past drunk at this point, and he poked Sherlock in the shoulder forcefully enough that the other man almost fell over. Silver eyes flashed up to John's as the doctor stood over him. _He's drunk_, he thought to himself, _Or well on his way_. His eyes narrowed. _And something else…is he mad? _John's arm swung out to indicate the crowd behind him.

"So what, exactly, is wrong with me, hmmm? Am I not tall enough? Not well-dressed enough? Is it my cologne, or my shoes, or my accent? Hmmmm?"

"It could be all of those, John, but I don't know what particular failing you are trying to refer to."

John's face was one of angry disbelief as he plopped down beside the detective and glared at the floor. "I just don't get it. I've asked at least, what, eleven women to dance? And not a single one would. Ha! And what about you? Are you even going to dance? _Can_ you? Nevermind. They all just gave me this funny look, like, you know, I'm not in their 'league' or something." His face snapped over to gaze at Sherlock. "What's my problem? Deduce me, or _something_," he commanded, waving his hands quite comically in the air before himself.

_Ah, John is frustrated at the female attendants of this place, this 'club.' Hmmm, how to rectify that…._ He continued staring into space, only now he was looking in John's general direction, which gave the other man the idea that the detective was still listening.

"I just don't get it. I asked them, and _very_ nicely, I might add. And _every_ one of them just blew me off." The doctor looked back to the floor again, chuckling. "Shit, I had three _men_ ask me to dance. _Men_! Is that the kind of vibe I give off? Because I mean, it's all fine, and I'm glad that this place is open to all kinds and whatnot, but geez. Eleven!" He reached out and pushed the younger man again, who rocked a bit and came back to reality, leaping into a standing position at once.

"Come John. Follow me." And without further ado, Sherlock glided out towards the main floor purposefully, as if he was walking into a crime scene, his natural habitat. John's somewhat slowed brain followed his progress for a few seconds before he realized what the other man had said, and he heaved himself out of the couch and after him.

Sherlock thought silently to himself. _How to attract partners for John? Drag him around to every female here? Too time consuming. Hang a sign on his neck? He'd never go for something so easy. Act as an intermediary and hunt one out for him myself? Gah_, he shivered, _I could never pull it off without scaring them away. 'Oh, hi, would you cavort about and then later have sex with my friend'? Rubbish ideas._ And then his gaze alighted upon a few choice dancers, and he noted how they paired up, dancing beside or in front of each other. As they did this, others seem to seep out of the crowd and approach them, and then they each seemed to be drawn out to pass around to many and various partners as the song went on. _Drawing them out with their display of physical prowess on the floor…holds promise. But then, who will dance with John to start him off? __**I**__ certainly can't dance to this horrendous drivel._

He reached the space of the floor reserved for those with the special passes, still clustered and thronging, but not quite as badly. He looked around for a possible partner for his friend, his hopes slowly dying as he analyzed each dancer's motives, level of sobriety, and attractiveness. Damn. His eyes narrowed, taking in the basic pattern of several of the more talented bodies before him. His mind drew lines, calculated, and extrapolated on the rhythm of the movements and strategic placing of appendages. He focused then on the more masculine appearing dancers, whether or not they actually _be_ male or female in reality. His mind recorded the patterns they displayed, merged them with the already evaluated and integrated gyrations, and…he began to move. For that was all it was in his mind. Moving. Just at different tempos. It could almost be likened to playing an instrument, in which the instrument was instead the body.

It took Sherlock Holmes mere hours to learn a foreign language when he had a headache and a stomach virus. It took a bare twenty seconds to develop his own style of dance. And John, who had followed from so far behind, almost walked right past his friend, so different was his appearance. He stopped, and stared, and thought, _What the bloody hell just happened? He was there, in front, walking. And now he's here, in front…dancing! Sherlock Bloody Bleeding Holmes is dancing before me! _He looked down for a second before concluding, _I must be really drunk._

The detective stopped for a moment, breathing only slightly heavier than normal, and he motioned with a hand for John to join him. John returned the gesture with a resounding stare of disbelief. Then he rationalized it, _What the hell? Can't turn out to be any worse of a night. Been turned down by several women, might as well have a dance with my best mate and get all this tension out. _And so he sidled up slightly perpendicular to the detective who, _Where the hell did he ever learn to dance like that,_ looked as relaxed as when playing his violin. So confident, with precise and flowing motions of legs and arms. It was almost intimidating to dance beside him. _Ah, whatever_, John's drunken mind fed him, _I've been in a fuckin' war, this is nothing. _And he danced.

They stayed beside each other for the most part, occasionally facing, and John saw Sherlock's lip quirk up every now and then, though his eyes remained mostly closed it seemed. _He's enjoying this, I bet. Bloody berk would never let on to that, though, would he? _People tried to approach a few times, but they were either intimidated by Sherlock's newfound ability, outright rebuffed by the man himself, or steered away when John refused to allow them in to his circle of influence. Mostly men; a couple were actually female, though, but dreadfully not the doctor's type. And, despite the depressing beginning of the night, and the fact that he still had not had even one single female partner, he was actually having fun just dancing here with Sherlock.

And as he was thinking this, the music changed once again. This time to a _somewhat_ slower paced, sinuous, grinding rock song. John thought he recognized it as being "Sail" by Awolnation, but his head was still a bit too buzzed to register it fully. And then he turned around to see if his mate wanted a break. He felt like _he_ could definitely use one, anyway. And. He. Stopped…. Because before him, Sherlock Holmes, a man that John Watson had heretofore imagined could never lower himself to such things as modern dancing, was moving in a way that could make even a straight man blush. Which John did; as he stared. Though he needn't feel embarrassed, because nearly every pair of eyes within a twenty foot radius was focused on the same region of the dance floor. _Can you actually have sex with the air?_ he wondered_. Because I am seeing some pretty incontrovertible evidence for its argument, right now_.

And then, Sherlock's eyes flicked open and met John's, and his entire demeanor returned back to what passed as normal for him. He was sweating lightly, dark curls plastered in places to his forehead, as he cocked his head in silent question. John realized then that he was still kind of staring, and so he averted his gaze as though watching someone pass behind Sherlock. The detective, figuring speech perhaps was a better approach with John while he was partially inebriated, stepped over to his friend, close. Very close.

John acted as though nothing perturbed him when the other man invaded his personal space. _Not like he knows what that is anyway_. Then Sherlock's hands reached up and gripped his arms, just below the shoulders, causing John's attention to instantly refocus on the source of contact. The younger man was still looking at him quizzically and seemed to reach a decision of some sort as he leaned in so as to be heard over the music. Hot breath puffed across the doctor's earlobe as lips that were close behind, _Too Close_, asked a question.

"You stopped. Why?"

It took him a moment to redirect his thoughts, but eventually John managed to beg off with, "I think I'm going to head out for some air." His face was still hot from the dancing…and other things that made him uncomfortable. "It's a bit warm for me."

The detective nodded and stepped back, waving toward a door on the side. John looked at him in silent inquiry, _Are you coming?_

_Not quite yet. Going to move about and do some observing for a moment_.

_Oh, alright, then, I'll just be_… "Dammit! I'm doing it again!" he yelled, voice lost in the surrounding noise. But his expression and gestures came through loud and clear to Sherlock, who merely turned his head a bit and twitched his mouth, the sly look of a gratified trainer. An exasperated army doctor then made his way through the uneven flooring and across the grand expanse to the door that promised a little escape: cooler air, less noise, and some time away from Sherlock to process (and discard) those uncomfortable feelings. He shook his head at that last thought. _Now I'm really beginning to turn into him. Process and discard feelings? Ha!_

He passed through the door, and the blessed peace of night enveloped him. It wasn't quite a back alley so much as a private expanse of concrete that the owner of the club hadn't bothered with yet. But right now, it was a sanctuary. And he leaned up against the wall in relief.

The door banged open suddenly as three men came through. All of roughly the same height, fashionably dressed, and with an air of violence. The second one through spotted John against the wall, pointing him out to the others. They began to move slowly towards him. _Uh oh…_ passed through John's mind. He didn't have any weapons, and he was half-drunk. Even with his training, he didn't like those odds, especially if one of them might be carrying a weapon. A flash at the side of the third man, and John spotted the telescopic night stick. _Great_.

They formed a semi-circle around him, each looking to the others for nerve. No one made any threatening moves, but the air was filled with tension. John was actually about to speak up when the door banged open again, and out strolled Sherlock. The attention of the pack shifted as the three sized up the new threat, and then two turned back to John while the last hollered at the detective, "Get outta here! None of your affair, mate! Just making sure we keep the club swept clean of _his_ kind," the man gestured with obvious distaste toward the doctor.

"To what kind do you refer?" Sherlock answered with a question as he turned to face them head on.

"The kind that comes here to gay clubs just to start trouble. This one was too obvious. No way _he_ was gay from the moment I saw 'im."

John's mind spun. _Gay club? We went to a gay club?_ Which made sense now that he reviewed the occurrences of the night. The poshness of the club, the women who wouldn't dance with him, and even the name alluded to it, with its many colored object of amusement, the kaleidoscope. Oh, _I'm an idiot. And Sherlock, too. There's absolutely no way he would even be aware of it. Or care for that matter_. And at that moment, the detective spoke again, laughing a bit as he did.

"Not gay? Him?" He strolled up to the side of the semi-circle of three, stopping right before them and fixing them with a glacial stare. His body was relaxed, as if to say he found them to be no threat. And his voice lowered, threateningly so, as he spoke only two words. "He's mine," floated out through the gathering; and the tone used was one of absolute surety, actually causing the one nearest him to step back a bit and speak.

"Hey. Hey man. Sorry, sorry okay? We just saw this bloke going up to women a few times earlier and thought…"

"Yes, you thought. That was your first mistake," snapped Sherlock as he stepped between the man and John. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to get back."

At first, the men seemed ready to comply, but then one, the first one that had been out of the door, gained a bit of courage and challenged the situation.

"No way. I don't believe it. This guy is straight."

"He's not."

"Prove it." And the man crossed his arms, thinking himself abundantly clever. John had been watching the proceedings with a growing sense of embarrassment, anxiety, and dread. Though dread was gaining more ground from the way this guy was talking to them. Sherlock on the other hand, rolled his eyes like nothing more than an annoyed rich frat boy who was told he had to hug his grandmother. He gave one last searing glower at all three of the men, turned, and pulled John against him in a forceful, and an outsider might say passionate, kiss that sent a jolt of fear, surprise, and acceptance through John's being. It lasted only ten seconds, but John felt as though both his mouth and his heart had been raped and pillaged. Turned inside out. Switched places. Imploded.

Meanwhile, while John's brain attempted a rebooting sequence, the men began to file away slowly, one even apologizing as he made his escape back into the din of the club's DJ and lights. And the detective turned back to John, picking and pulling at the doctor's shirt as if to assure that it was on correctly. John just continued to stare dumbly ahead as Sherlock began speaking.

"Really, John, you should have waited for me before actually going out. But at least the situation was kept contained by quick thinking and acting on both our parts, right?" He paused, " John?" As John looked finally at the younger man, he came partially back to his senses.

"Um, yeah. That was, pretty…quick…something…"

"Yes. And your physiological response was much more convincing than my false kiss could ever be. There's no way they could've refuted that! The perfect argument via literal body language! Excellent thinking!"

"False ki…physio…what?"

"Come, John, don't make me be crude," the dark haired man said with a subtle downward flick of his eyes.

John's brain finally caught on to what Sherlock was saying…and he almost passed out. Right there. On the concrete. And died. As he realized _what_ physiological response was being spoken of. He groaned aloud.

"Don't be embarrassed, John. It was brilliant! Where did you learn how to do that?"

"I, um…special forces. Training, for unusual, um, circumstances…um…" he petered off into conversational death.

"Well, I think they must have thought of everything to prepare you for, then. Wonderful!" He spun and paced as he talked, John watching somewhat confusedly. "Now," he said as he faced the doctor once more, "we've been out together for the night, so what should we do now?" His head cocked, mouth moving through too many thoughts for anyone to process. "I know! Let's go to the morgue! There's supposed to be a nice married couple in from an MVA only a day or so ago. We could try to figure the particulars of their accident and correlate with Molly; supposedly, there is an insurance fraud attempt with…." John stopped registering what was being said as he followed listlessly after his friend. His head hurt, his mind hurt, and…_what the bloody hell just happened tonight?!_


	6. Chapter 6

Day 5 (still), then Day 6…

John followed behind Sherlock as if in a daze, his body on autopilot as he dumbly shuffled through the night's events. No matter how long and hard he thought on it, though, the same question reared up, _What the bloody hell just happened?!_ He went from having a mate's night out to snogging his flatmate in front of a group of men…in a gay club! And he hadn't just snogged on _any_ man, oh no…it was his best friend! And while the ever-logical Holmes had clearly stated that it was meant as a ruse to free them from the unwanted aggressive physical confrontation with those same men, John felt something indefinable shift within himself. It was slow-moving, hidden; with no name and no surety that it was real in the first place. _Am I just too drunk?_ _Am I having an identity crisis? I feel so, so…odd. What's wrong with me?_

He looked up at the silhouetted form of the detective as they slowed to a stop, outlined against the streetlights as he searched for a cab to hail. Clearly, the other man's mind wasn't even considering the recent events, and he had already moved past them. The potential of scrutinizing some fresh bodies in a morgue held sway over that enigmatic mind now, not some false act of impropriety. So why couldn't John himself work past it? He sighed, partway in frustration of the night's confusing events, and partway in awe at how quickly Sherlock always managed to attract a cab.

As they climbed inside, the detective's phone went off. A text. John gave the cabbie the destination as Sherlock's attention deviated to the chiming device, flicking out his phone and firing off a reply to his texter. When done, he set the phone on the seat between them and gazed out the window into the night air. John caught the clock on the dash and read 11:57. He groaned inwardly, hoping that the morgue didn't have too many interesting things for him tonight. He was on call tomorrow for the clinic, so if they became bogged down with patients, he might be called upon to come in. Perfect. The deep baritone of the man beside him brought him out of his contemplations.

"Lestrade has something for me, John. John? Are you feeling okay?

"Mm? Oh, yeah. Yeah. Fine. Just, thinking is all."

"Lestrade is at the morgue. Has something for me."

"Oh, well. Excellent, since that's where we were going to hang out after clubbing anyway," John attempted a joke.

Sherlock's quicksilver eyes stared in incomprehension as John's attempts at humor once again failed to reach past that analytical barrier. "Yes, rather providential," was spoken after a moment's consideration of the doctor's previous statement's implications. And then those eyes flowed back over to the side streets and darkness beyond the barrier of glass.

John remained quiet the rest of the way there, lost in thoughts that lead nowhere. At least, nowhere he was ready to pursue. Every time a particular pathway sprung up before him, he stubbornly kept to the trail he was on already and admitted no new evidence into his chosen route. He had gotten to exactly nowhere at least four times when they arrived back in their part of the city, pulling up to the hospital shortly thereafter.

Sherlock was out of the cab and through the doors of Bart's before John was finished paying the driver. He could almost see a comical vision of Sherlock as a puppy begging for the treat that Greg dangled. Of course, were Sherlock a dog, he would probably bite down half of Greg's arm first before then urinating on his leg. He shook his head of the outrageous silliness circling him just as he finally came to where Lestrade was watching Sherlock circle and hover over the body of a young woman. The detective looked up from his study as the doctor approached.

"John, finally."

"I've only just been paying the cabbie and came straight up. What do you mean finally?"

"We have a case. What did you think I meant?"

"I just thought…nevermind."

"Good. Stop thinking and start looking. Observe, if you would; but if it's as I already suspect, there won't be any physical traces of the cause of death visible to the eye alone."

Lestrade looked surprised, as usual, "You already know?"

"I have a hunch. One that I must research to be sure of accessibility. But yes. John?"

Ever amazed by his friend's brilliantly fast conclusions, yet annoyed at his unwillingness to share his breakthroughs immediately, he complied as he moved over to the young woman's body. "Right then. Who am I looking at?"

Lestrade answered before Sherlock could call the information irrelevant. "Nancy Petrosi, 27. Part-time college student. No medical issues. No allergies. No enemies. Known ones, anyway. Died tonight at her job about 2 hours ago. Found in a dressing room on the floor. No signs of attack or struggle. No recordings of anyone else entering the room with her during the time she went in to the time she was discovered."

John felt the usual searing heat of Sherlock's gaze in his back as he worked over the body, and Greg's voice droned into background noise after those first few sentences. He didn't know why Sherlock valued his medical opinion so highly. He seemed perfectly able of solving most cases with no help at all. He hoped Sherlock never realized that, though, because he enjoyed this. All of it. Listening to the facts and clues as they came together to form a picture that led to a discovery and conviction. It was almost like practicing medicine in a way. With patients, you put together all of the verbally reported clues, the physical findings, the evidence of lab and diagnostic studies, and it painted you picture that cemented a diagnosis. He looked up at the other two men who waited on his judgment.

"You're right. No outward signs of trauma or attack. No signs of some undiscovered disease, not outwardly anyway. And no sign of drug usage."

"Not in the way that you mean, anyway," Sherlock said cryptically, his hand held fisted over his mouth as he thought; and he spun to Lestrade."You have the surveillance videos?" And Greg reached into his pocket to pull out a USB before speaking.

"We've got her last living moments clocked at about 2033 as she enters that dressing room. Until then, most of the time she's available on two different camera angles."

John spoke up, "Camera angles? What was she doing?"

"Working, John," Sherlock replied.

"At what?" And he saw the mental eye roll frolicking across the younger man's features.

"Take a look at her feet. Can you not tell?" And John stared dumbly. Greg, who already knew, but was still interested in hearing how Sherlock had figured it out, just looked on.

Sherlock moved down to the feet of the corpse. "Young female, well-proportioned, fake breasts, with feet that show patterned pressure marks up to the knee, most likely from the kind of footwear she had on at the time of death. The soles of her feet show callus patterns consistent with those who are accustomed to wearing stiletto heels, and often. No mark of a wedding band ever having been present." He paused for what John figured was dramatic effect. "So, unwed college girl with an altered body that was nice enough even prior to the additions made to it who wears stilettos on a regular basis, and is recorded on constant surveillance at her job. What profession do _you_ think she's in?"

"She's a stripper? Oh." John felt befuddled and amazed and somewhat annoyed, as usual, at Sherlock's ability to call out the not so obvious facts about people. The detective merely threw him a half grin, palmed the USB from Lestrade who gaped (only a little), and swept out of the doors. John gave the older detective one more look before heading after him. Lestrade stopped him briefly with a shout, though.

"John! Hey, what's Sherlock's clothes all about then?"

John remembered then that the younger man had actually dressed down for the night and was present in jeans and Rolling Stone t-shirt. How to explain when he didn't quite get what was going on himself. He laughed at the confusion on Greg's face, shrugging with it and saying, "It's Sherlock." Which seemed to be explanation enough for the other man as he simply grunted in acknowledgment as John resumed his hurried pursuit. Greg stared on after the doctor, rolling the evidence around in his head as he had been doing for months now. Those two…. He chuckled suddenly then, thinking to himself that _those two_ were about the biggest pair of idiots in the known world. And he couldn't wait until they figured it out, too.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Back at Baker Street, John hopped straight in the shower when they got back, attempting to rid himself of the stink of the club_. A gay club!_ he thought. Though he had never had any problem with those who went the other way, he had never thought to find himself in one of their venues. He'd have to talk with Sherlock about that later, in fact…no, wait a minute. Sherlock wouldn't have known or cared. But then, who would have…? _Gah! Mycroft!_ He scrubbed his hair a bit harder as he made the connection. Didn't he say that Mycroft was the one to give him those VIP passes? Really, the man was insufferable. Playing a trick like that on Sherlock was like picking on a small child who doesn't speak yet. It was just plain mean. _The man just doesn't get social niceties or, well, anything of that nature. He's completely daft._ Sometimes endearingly so. Other times…enough so as to make a person want to beat him senseless with a rubber cane. Or something metal. And studded. Anywho…

John stepped from the shower with iron resolve to "speak" with Mycroft at their next encounter. He brushed his teeth ferociously as he contemplated the bullying that the elder Holmes was due. Wrapping the towel around himself, he then trotted upstairs to grab his sleep pants and housecoat, returning to the living area to find Sherlock zoned in to the screen of his laptop, switching back and forth between different camera angles of the club, all focused on one particular dancer. The detective motioned for him to come closer without looking up.

"Here is where she is last seen outside of the dressing room. Watch." And John surveyed from two cameras as the girl, very talented indeed, performed her routine. There were two other women on stage at other poles, as well. He had walked up to the end of one set, a slow, almost ballet-like performance with a bit of modern dance thrown in. Pretty sure he recognized it as a song by Evanescence called 'Together Again.' It was actually quite mesmerizing to watch. If you ignored the gaudy outfit. He only caught the last 45 or so seconds of it, but he had to admit it was quite a good ending at the least. Then another song broke in, a harsher, yet more fitting tune for this venue, crashing against the subtle, melancholy melody of the previous. First she began with the stereotypical pole dance, although it was a decent enough choreography. And the music chosen, well, it was certainly grungy and rock enough to get most any man going. '_Closer_,' he thought to himself, _I think that's the name of it anyway. By Nine Inch Nails or some sort. Been a while since I've listened to that stuff. _

She started out at the pole, but then moved with swift purpose to a member of the audience. No one seemed to pay this any mind, so it must be a common occurrence for the girls to do things like this. Sherlock clicked on another viewpoint and the angles shift, one view from behind and to the man's left, the other slightly to the man's right and facing him. The woman, Nancy, dropped to the floor and sort of crawled the last few feet to him, rising up to his knee level when she reached him. John stopped watching her for a moment and scanned the people around them. Nothing suspicious that he could discern. And when his eyes sought the pair again, Nancy was giving the lap dance of the century. Even with these poor quality cameras and bad angles, John could feel his face heating up at the intimacy such moves suggested.

The subject of her attentions seemed almost shocked and scared, unable to figure out where to put his hands. So he ended up just holding on to the bottom of his chair. Sweat poured off of his face and darkened his shirt. _Geez, must have never been to one of those places before_, thought John as he watched the man's hands shake while they gripped his seat. And when she finished, she merely gave a fond pat on the cheek and trotted off to her dressing room while he sat there shooting glances around, stood up suddenly, and ambled off. Sherlock switched cameras to show her entering the room, and then switched again, rewound, and they watched the sweaty man leave the club within five minutes of the end of the dance.

"Alright. I've got nothing. I saw no one suspicious, other than her last customer who appeared very uncomfortable with the whole lap dance thing. But he left right after. And she never gave any impression of being distressed or anything untoward." He finished and watched Sherlock's face, waiting for the inevitable drill down of how he never saw anything and couldn't he just pay attention and blah blah blah. But, it never came. Instead…

"You're right."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're right. There is nothing here on film to indicate this was anything other than a usual night's work for her."

"Oh. Well, then. What next? Go to the club itself?"

The detective sat back in his chair, eyes still attuned to the screen. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Everything I need visually is here. And I believe I've worked out the murder weapon. However, I need to complete some research of my own before I'm sure. I just can't quite figure how it…well, no matter. An experiment or so should provide the data I require."

John yawned down at him, "Well, I'm for bed, then. On call tomorrow," he said as he glanced at the clock, blinked hard, then corrected himself with a groaned, "Today, that is." And he pivoted away, heading to the kitchen for some water before finally trudging back upstairs to bed. Meanwhile, the detective watched the various angles of recorded footage again, cataloguing the precise movements the woman made, down to the last detail. Every flick of the wrist, set of the foot, and fluttering of the lashes was recorded, categorized, and sorted. He looked at the time on the corner of the screen, eyes narrowed. _I need information. Experience_. _Data_. With that thought, he typed in a Google search and found what he was looking for within a few minutes of sorting through useless results. _And nearby, too_, he thought as he caught the address of the business he had sought online. His eyes narrowed, and his lips turned into a half smile, half sneer. _Perfect_.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John came home, heavy footed and thoughts bleak, after 10 hours in the clinic. On call. What a joke. He'd gotten the ring at 0730 that morning that someone else was going to be out sick, and there was already a line forming before they'd opened the clinic doors. Drudgery after drudgery. Snot nose after snot nose. He battled through the weariness and boredom of the mundane. Trying to focus on why he loved this whole being a physician thing again. He was too tired to remember, though. He sighed heavily as he pushed open the door to the flat.

As he slung his coat over the bottom rail of the stairs, he looked up as Mrs. Hudson came quickly down towards him. So flustered was she that she didn't even see John until she almost ran him down. She gasped at the near collision, and then nervously tittered a hello before dodging around him saying, "Oh, you know. Baking. Be up…um, later, dearie. Ta!" And she snapped her door closed, leaving John to stare in bewilderment at the strange behavior. Then his mind tracked her path back to his flat…and Sherlock. _Oh no_. The detective's experiments had never before sent her scampering away. Not even various body parts separated from their respective owners. So what did this time? His stomach sank. There was, literally, no telling with Sherlock Holmes, a man of multiple methods of freakery.

John set his shoulders and pivoted, army style, ready to face his flatmate's most recent concoction of the obtuse. The stairs seemed to drift beneath him as he passed over them. What would it be this time? Step. Another body? Step. More than one?! Step. _Pieces_ of one…or many? Step. Perhaps a host of ferrets had moved in? Step. Or Sherlock had taken up crochet? Step. Maybe the wall no longer stood? Step. The windows replaced by giant pieces of bug tape? Step. Dead pigeons everywhere…..again? Step. All of John's socks used to create an escape rope out the window? Step. All of the clocks running backwards? Step. Blood on all the walls? Step. Stop. _No wait, that's already happened_. Resume. Step. _Perhaps he's induced himself into a coma?_ Step. Then his heart sank. What would scare Mrs. Hudson away? Step. A woman who had been in the center of trouble with them all along? A woman who could just wrinkle her nose in disgust at the body parts occupying the fridge? What would scare _her_? Step. Stop. _Drugs_. He jumped the remaining few stairs and ran the rest of the way, bursting into the flat, banging the door wide and loud, breath rasping out in his fear.

Heart pounding, his eyes scanned the room…and found….not what he had imagined…ever… Much like Sherlock, his mind slowed everything down so as to take it all in at once. The room was darkened, some sort of reddish, ambient glow was present that softened the lines of everything in the flat. Molly was sitting beside Greg, both in folding chairs. One was empty beside them. There was enough room between the chairs for a person to walk through, though not much. She had a blush on her face the likes of which he had never seen before. Her eyes found his, and she choked, halfway between sob, speech, embarrassment, and laughter. Her hands were clenched tightly in the hem of her shirt, twisting it to and fro. Greg sat with a look of defeat, like one who has given in to watching a movie that their kids wanted to see. He was leaned slightly forward and to the side, elbow resting on his knee and hand up to his face, fingers splayed out over his forehead, and thumb touching on his cheek. Almost as if he were trying to avoid looking forward. The chairs were facing the kitchen, which was blocked from John's view for the moment. He caught Greg's eye as the other man flicked his eyes toward another strange thing that had decided to occupy space in the flat, and mouthed/whispered the word 'research' to John as the doctor's eyes found what was being pointed out. A pole. From ceiling to floor. Bolted down… …O….k…. He took a few more steps into the room, and froze as he heard the first few notes breathe into the air of the flat. _I recognize that…it's….it's…_

And then he died. Or he thought he did, as the aching choral tones that overlaid the piano turned into the voice that bespoke of two lovers, one always seeking the other, dreaming of unity, never finding it. The music floated out through the sound system, creating blanket of beautiful notes. And then, there was Sherlock: workboots with tight jeans covering their tops, Clockwork Orange t-shirt clinging to his torso, almost too small for his lithe frame. Wild curls as disheveled as if he had actually just fallen out of bed from a lover's arms. He strode slowly, sinuously into the room. John walked over, and sat/fell into the chair beside Greg, almost zombie-like in his stilted motions. All eyes widened as Sherlock began to move through the exact same routine as the woman whose murder they were investigating, the mixture of classic interpretive and modern dance.

_Oh, so he's researching how someone could have gotten to her? Well, then, that's…that's… _he watched as Sherlock snaked his way to the end, walking around Molly, running his hand from her clavicle and around to the back of her neck as he circled her chair. Suddenly dropping down behind her, he traced his hands up and down the length of the sides of her arms, bringing a shiver forth from the already flustered woman. His head found a perch at the side of her neck, and he nuzzled her face to the side as he breathed in dramatically, eyes closed as if in orgasm at her scent. One hand stayed lightly clasped on her bicep as the other trailed lightly up to her throat, and then chin. He tilted her face back toward him, eyes opening lazily as he slid them closed again and pulled her in to kiss.

Or he would have, but she squealed and tittered, standing abruptly, sputtering. She finally decided that no speech at all was the better option and fled, almost knocking the chair over in her haste as Sherlock stood from behind her. Greg and John looked on as if paralyzed, unable to take their eyes off of the detective, so different in demeanor was he. It was almost as if he were a different person. _But this is all an act_, John said to himself with a huge gulp, _for the Work_. And Gregory Lestrade was thinking along those same lines, too, trying to grasp what was left of his manly dignity, when Sherlock's leonine attention snapped to _his_ face. And a grin that was surely born in hell flitted across the detective's features as he drew the t-shirt over his head to reveal a tight cotton tank underneath.

Greg swallowed. Hard. As Sherlock flowed over to him, stepping behind him first and tracing a finger along the nape of his neck as he came to stand before him. Smoothly, the younger man straddled the DI's legs, settling down on his lap, pinning him with a burning fierce stare in those blue-lightning eyes. Greg's mouth moved as if to speak, and Sherlock's hands flew up, one going to the center of the DI's chest, holding him back, the other going over his mouth, effectively silencing him. Once sure that the silence would remain, Sherlock moved his hands up to hold each side of the older man's face, while the DI remained in pure shock of what was happening, right now, on his very lap. The wild, dark haired dream before him tilted its head with a shadowy little grin. One hand left the side of Greg's face and feathered over his ear lobe. Breath hitched in his throat at the sensitive area. And his eyes almost closed, so hypnotized was he by this creature, as that hand slid behind his head and pulled forward. And then that dark angel's grin found the DI's lips.

The moment stilled as Greg and John both shared the shock of the moment. Lips moving along his own, belonging to this beautiful enigma before him, had him almost caught up enough to not react as his body had been conditioned to over the years: with fear. But then, it broke through, and he pushed back from Sherlock's hands and mouth, almost falling out of the chair. He stood, and as he did, it pulled Sherlock up with him. He took a step back from this man he had thought he knew, took one look at John, and fled almost as quickly as Molly had. He even left his cell phone on the table in his haste. Sherlock watched after him as the last strains of the music vanished.

John was about to speak up, but Sherlock's eyes stopped him, and he twitched his head down in the negative, as if to say not to break the suspension of disbelief in the atmosphere. The doctor complied as the detective walked from the room to the kitchen from whence he had originally emerged. There was the sound of shuffling. Fabric shifting. A sound system being readjusted. And then, minutes later, a new sound came through. Harsher than the last, the new almost rock/techno beat was animalistic in nature. It pulled from the depths of one's most primal urges. And John put a name to this one as well. Apparently, Sherlock was recreating the last two acts of the woman's life. The introduction to 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails was cranked so high as to shake the floor boards with its intensity. And out came Sherlock. Again.

_He must've…changed…clothes…_John's brainwaves disappeared as the dark angel came into the soft red glow once more. Bluejean fabric had been replaced by tight, thin leather bootcut pants that showed every….curve….of every…bit….ending in pale bare feet. The white tank had been exchanged for a thin leather vest, open at the front and ending a few inches before the top of the pants, revealing a good strip of muscled abdomen. John blinked. And blinked again, as Sherlock grabbed the pole and began to undulate along its length, alternately dropping low and then riding up it again as the words to the song began. He spread his legs and twined one backwards around the pole pulling his back flush against it, reaching up above his head to grasp along its length. He arched his back as if at the cusp of pleasure as the singer's words poured forth.

And just when John thought he could turn it all into some sort of joke in his head in order to make himself more comfortable…Sherlock's eyes fastened him to the spot as the detective's head snapped down to face him and those cupid's bow lips mouthed the words with the singer, _I wanna fuck you like an animal_. A jolt of something went through John. And he stared and stared and stared. It held him in its grip, sure as gravity held him to the earth. Sherlock pushed away from the pole at that point, much as the woman had done in her performance. He strode forward powerfully, purposefully. And then John remembered what the woman had done to her intended target in the audience, and his heart dropped from its perch. _Surely not_, he thought. _Surely he'll just mime it all_.

One look in those shining eyes as they came within closer view told him he was wrong. So wrong, in fact, that he began to tremble a little. _What_? And Sherlock rolled his shoulders as he leaned down in John's face. One long look, a quick flick of his brilliant eyes downwards, told John all he needed to know about how far Sherlock was willing to go in the name of the Work. And he couldn't help but shiver from the intensity of the purely sexual gaze being blasted at him. He resolutely kept his hands at his sides, trying to act casual, as if this didn't bother him a bit.

The detective tilted his head like a dog hearing a far off sound. As if he could sense the train of John's thoughts. He bit his lip, looking down at John, and strode around behind him. John jumped as hands snaked up and through his short-cropped hair, massaging, sometimes brushing along the backs of his ears and the nape of his neck. Little pulses of that 'something' kept shooting down down down… And then Sherlock's lips were at his ear, "Hello, John." The loud whisper rumbled through his inner ear and down to the soles of his feet. And just as he figured he needed to get up and leave. Right now. Yes. Now. This very second….lips pressed to the base of his neck and fingers traced their feathered pathway down his arms. The lips then found his shoulder as one hand came up and pulled aside the knitted fabric. A quick flick of the tongue and there was another shock of the 'something.'

He suddenly decided to take control and wrested his head and neck away somewhat, which only seemed in keeping with the detective's plans, as the other man was already standing again and coming to face him. Or so he thought. Because, quicker than he could think, Sherlock's dark curls, poetic eyes, and angel's body were before him, crawling the floor on hands and knees, and pulling up slowly. Ever…so….slowly…up John's legs until he could meet those eyes full on. Long, artistic fingers splayed over each of the doctor's thighs as Sherlock suddenly separated them, pushing them apart and depositing himself between them. They were almost at a reversal of their height difference now, with John a few inches higher than Sherlock, so that he had to tilt his head down to look at the younger man.

Words of protest almost spilled forth at that last move, but Sherlock proceeded with shock and awe, surprising his prey into silence by grasping both of John's wrists and shoving them down and behind his back, restraining him. Sherlock's body still undulated, serpent-like, with the beat and crash of the song's crescendo, as if he was preparing to strike. His eyes, half-lidded; his mouth, parted; his skin, flushed… And that cold, hard, hot, soft, burning yet freezing length of his body was pressing up against John in such a way that even the most abstinent of monks could not possibly remain unaroused. He was mesmerized. Frozen. Heat building within himself that stemmed from a source he had yet to acknowledge. And the body before him was one of pure sex, carnal desire, and wanton fucking. Gripping, pulling, sweating, sliding…. Every breath released by this man holding him prisoner promised something of the baser of man's instincts.

Sherlock's face hovered within inches of John's own as he craned his neck upward, seeking, seeking…. And then the detective released his wrists, body flowing upward liquid smooth between the doctor's legs and then straddling them, sliding over them. Back and forth. Back and forth. There was that face again…those lips…before him… A lazy, wicked, smile lit the corner of the detective's mouth as he grabbed John's collar and pulled his lips against his own, continuing his writhing with the end of the song. Mouth open, teeth parted, tongues clashing, heads turning, seeking purchase. Hands went everywhere and nowhere, and grabbed and twisted and held tight. Electricity shot through John's body and straight to his groin. Someone moaned, maybe himself. Such burning heat and sensuality here within this kiss that was like the fucking of two mouths. And then…and then…

Sherlock stood up abruptly as the music ended, walked over and flicked on the lights. John blinked as harsh reality flooded over him. Shit. _What…did…I…just…do…?_ But Sherlock beat him to the audible range of speech.

"As ever, John, your input is invaluable. Of course, I should have known that no matter how immobile one might appear on camera, there are still minute little motions that can't be tracked adequately with video! I need to draw up a formula, yes. Nicely done. I knew I could count on you, at least, to help with my research. Molly and Lestrade were reluctant at best to begin with, so I naturally ended…" Sherlock kept on talking as he went about things in the kitchen. Who knew what _kinds_ of things? Probably bad. Could be dangerous. But who knew? Certainly not John, who sat. And stared. Into nothing. He remained like that for a good few minutes before raising his hand to his lips slowly and touching them. He looked at the fingers as if they were covered in some unknown substance afterwards, and then he stood and walked woodenly to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to Revella for her egging me on to further heights of Sherlockian-ness. Wouldn't have been so driven to complete this tonight without her. LOL!

Day 7…

_I'm bleeding again. Why am I bleeding?_ "John, why am I bleeding?" Hurried footsteps met this inquiry and ended with, "Oh, God. Sherlock! What…what did you do this time?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but was interrupted, "Nevermind. Give me your arm." He complied, watching in fascination as John removed a large triangle of glass from his forearm. How had it gotten there anyway? His eyes darted across the counter. _Oh yes_, he thought to himself as he remembered that he had been attempting to discover how much force one could put on a regular drinking glass before it shattered. The other remains of the vessel lay scattered haphazardly on the floor and counter. _Maybe not use my own arm to apply the force necessary next time? _ He was sure John would approve of his new decision and was about to inform the other man of this, when he suddenly became much more interested in the hands that treated his wound. Fascinatingly common though they were, they moved with a deft skill and steady, calm experience. And, behind the cadence of first aid in their foreground…behind it, underlying with a softer counter-melody, was that of...caring? Yes. Deep and profound. So raptly was he observing John that he forgot the pain. He also forgot he was staring. But John noticed…

"Ahem, well, I've got to be off to work soon. Just, _please_ try not to injure yourself further while I'm gone." He turned away from Sherlock as he secured the dressing, washing his hands in the sink. Sherlock had broken off his outward observation, retreating somewhat within himself so as not to appear odd to John. What was it about this man that held his interest so? John finished at the sink and walked over to grab his coat. He picked up his keys, and looked over his shoulder as he headed out the door. "I'll be back about 5:30 tonight, provided we don't have any late appointments. I'll grab some takeaway on my way home." Sherlock made no response, and John didn't wait for one either. As the front door to the flat closed, Sherlock turned toward the laptop. _Need help._ But it was only 7:30 in the morning. Cyndy wouldn't be available for at least another five hours. His gaze drifted back over to their cupboard, and all of the remaining glassware…

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Cyndy…**

**Cyndy…**

**Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyn…**

_WHAT?!_

**Ah, there you are.**

_How are you contacting my specific work computer directly?_

**So, I've had a breakthrough. Maybe**.

_Yeah, to my computer_.

**Immaterial. I've had to wait several minutes for those idiots to put me through to you before. This is faster.**

…..

_So. A breakthrough?_

**Yes. We went out, as you suggested. He seemed to have a fairly good time, especially at the end. At least, his display of dancing matched what is generally accepted as someone having a good time.**

_You're a handful to deal with, aren't you?_

**Yes?**

_Anyway, what happened after the dancing? _

**He got cornered by some very violent individuals, I kissed him, and then we went to the morgue to examine a body.**

…_er…_

**I can see why this would appear odd to you. I am a detective, of sorts, and I am frequently called upon by the police to consult on their unsolved cases.**

_Oh. Well, now it doesn't sound __**so**__ bad. I guess. Except that still means that your night ended with work._

**Your meaning?**

_Meaning, it was supposed to be a night for just the two of you._

**Oh, yes. I see. Having the detective inspector there was of no help then?**

_No! It's supposed to be time for you two __**only**__._

**Hmm. I begin to see. Well, that's alright. Last night was almost the two of us alone together.**

_Oh? _

**Yes. I did a portion of a strip tease act in our living room.**

_Oh! Well, that sounds, well, like something special. But wait. Didn't you say __**almost**__ alone?_

**Yes. The detective inspector and a medical examiner were there, too.**

_If you could hear me sigh, then you would know how exasperated this makes me._

**Why? Have I done something wrong?**

_Not exactly. No. But when I said 'alone' I meant __**alone**__. No one else. Anyway, what's the breakthrough you mentioned?_

**I noticed obvious signs of his arousal throughout my performance. Also, this morning, he was helping me…clean up something, and he seemed a bit distracted still by my presence. So much so, that it seemed to affect my level of concentration, too**.

_Ah, now we're getting somewhere. So when is the last date of intimacy?_

**What?**

_Intimacy. Sex. Cuddling._

**Oh. I'm sure I have no idea. I try not to keep track of those kinds of things. It's so predictable and boring anyway. I think he feels that way, too, and is just too nice to ever tell anyone.**

_Aha! I have the problem solved now! I wish I had asked this question a good while ago_.

**Sex is his problem then?**

_Yes. And yours, too, probably, if you want to know._

**I don't.**

_Of course not. But with that attitude, it'll just make it harder to fix this. However, you __**did**__ have the concern enough to seek counseling for his sake, so there must be something to be said about that._

**Yes, I suppose. I simply wish for things to go back to the way they were. Before this oddity came about and altered how things are.**

_Well, you've come to the right place at least. So, here's what you're going to do. He needs something sexually that's new or a bit exotic. Something he hasn't tried before, or is maybe afraid to ask for. I'll bet things will settle down after a few of those things occur._

**New? I can find it. Exotic? I know just the person to ask about this. Ta!**

_Wait! The person? Ask what?! _

_Are you there?! _

_Oh, good Lord…._

Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was about one in the afternoon. Plenty of time to accomplish what he needed to. He grabbed his coat off the rack, took one last look around the flat, and then closed the laptop before heading out through the front door. If he remembered correctly, it wasn't that far away where he could find exactly what he was looking for. His long strides ate up the distance in no time. Only a few streets over. And hopefully, if he was lucky, tonight would be the night to end this strangeness. To solve the case of JohnWatson! He smiled to himself as he turned the last corner and found what he was looking for.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John arrived home at just about 6:00, takeaway bags in one hand, and his coat in the other. He was starving and couldn't wait to sit down to his dinner. As he wiped his feet on the entry mat, he heard voices drifting down the staircase to him, and he paused to listen. _Please tell me Mycroft did not stop over,_ he pleaded silently. But another few seconds of listening in allowed him to realize that the other voice not belonging to Sherlock was feminine. _Maybe it's Molly?_ But that didn't make any sense because she should still be at work this time of night. He walked up a few of the stairs, easing his way slowly toward the source of the voices. They became more distinct the higher he climbed. And then he heard the woman laugh. _Not Irene, either, then. That is definitely not __**her**__ laugh._

"And they really paid you to do that? Why?"

"Oh, sweetheart, men'll pay for just about anything."

"How odd."

"It just depends on how flexible you are morally sometimes."

"Well, I don't believe that sort of thing is necessary here; although I cannot vouch 100% for his preferences, I imagine them to be somewhat more mundane than those contrivances people have had you using."

"Oh, I don't mind, as long as…" Her voice trailed off as John came through the door, eyes wide open as he took in the situation. He saw Sherlock sitting on his arm chair, relaxed, with his legs crossed. And across from him, curled up with one leg dangling off of the doctor's own arm chair was a woman of about 30 years of age, scantily clad, and wearing excessively high heels, one of which threatened to fall off of the foot which dangled from the chair. Both she and Sherlock looked to him, she with an appraising gaze, and he with only hopeful expectation. It took John barely 20 seconds to put together what was going on, but he still waited for Sherlock to confirm his fears. He didn't have to wait long.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, practically leaping up from his seated position then flowing gracefully over to John and scooping the takeaway bags from his hands. He moved to the kitchen where he deposited them. John followed behind him, smiled politely at the young woman, and slid the kitchen door closed. He turned to face his flatmate, his best friend…the most _annoying_ man he had ever met.

"Sherlock…"

"Mmmm…" the detective replied as he poked through the baggies of takeaway.

"What. Is. _That_?"

"General Tso. Would you like some?"

"In. Our. Living room."

"Well you can have it here just as easily." It was hard to tell sometimes whether the younger man was being sarcastic and joking, or if he really was so oblivious to the real meanings behind people's words. John crossed to stand before him, grabbing the tiny box from the other man's hand and setting it none too gently onto the table. He looked into those silver-blue orbs, so full of what seemed like clear honesty and innocence.

"_Her_. There. Why, is she, in there?"

"Oh. Well, I brought her in for you. A gift of time. Two hours to be exact."

"And you, hmmm, thought I needed this…_why_?"

"John, please. Any idiot can take a look at you lately and see the signs of loneliness and the need for sexual encounters and intimacy. All of the symptoms are there." John's eyes grew big at first, then narrowed as he continued listening. "You're dissatisfied with a job that you normally take much pleasure in. You don't make any efforts at dating anymore because you've found how endlessly mundane and boring those encounters are. So you have begun to desire something different. Something more stimulating, perhaps." John's eyes were devouring Sherlock's form as he spoke, and Sherlock took this as a confirmation. "Something more interesting, even. But you haven't placed what it is yet, have you? Perhaps it _is_ just that your tastes have shifted to a different area, and you have just not yet discovered what it is exactly that you're looking for? But how would you ever know if you don't look?" Sherlock walked around the table as he continued deducing the case of John Watson out loud to its main subject, certain he had all of the relevant data for his conclusion. "You have turned to seclusion with me instead of seeking out solutions to your problem. Instead of trying new things or discovering what your new interest is, you instead spend all of your free time with me." John was shaking a little by this point, his hands opening and closing. "What is it that has caught your mind and attention to the point that all else has faded away, John? What has changed? All else has lost its importance, so that you merely seek comfort here, in the familiar."

Sherlock paused to consider John's appearance. Trembling hands, gaze boring into the younger man's but seeming to look past them, body stock still as if caught surprised in the headlights….his eyes seemed almost frightened, too. What was wrong? He seemed almost a man who had figured out something formidably chilling. _Ah, he probably doesn't like being on the other side of my deductions,_ the detective thought. _He certainly gets angry enough with me when I do it to other people_. Maybe this was too direct an approach? What to do? A gesture of support perhaps? The time honored shoulder pat? Sherlock moved forward as if to do this, but John stepped back away from him.

"I'll be in my room for a little while. See you later tonight. Maybe," he all but whispered as he turned to leave, practically fleeing the room. Sherlock called out to him, but he didn't turn or acknowledge it. And a short time later, the door upstairs slammed shut. The detective winced. _Damn. This hasn't gone as planned at all_. He looked toward the living area, and then slid the door open. He cleared his throat to get the hooker's attention, and she obliged by swinging around in the seat.

"Well. It seems those services, of that particular nature, will not be required tonight."

"But you paid for two hours. Was he just not up to it?"

"I don't know. It's quite puzzling, really."

"Well," she said as she stood and slinked over to him, stopping to raise a hand to his chest, "Is there anything I can do for _you_, Mr. Holmes?" She looked coyly up into his flat stare. And just as he was about to tell her to just take a night off, he stopped himself, glancing back into the kitchen before speaking.

"Hungry?"

"Er….what…?" she stuttered, stumped. "Sure, I guess." And he put on his best I'm-not-a-sociopath smile as he took her arm and led her into the kitchen.

"Excellent. And how are you with breaking dishes? Glassware in particular?"

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Three hours later, John found his way back down to the main flat. Hopefully, that woman would be gone by now. He was having far too many strange revelations this night to suffer company with. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to wake himself from the dream in which he found his emotions whirling. _It just can't be,_ he kept repeating to himself as he crossed in to living area. And his heart skipped, fear racing over him as he saw Sherlock sprawled across the couch in a way that said he hadn't _chosen_ to be positioned that way. He had fallen.

By the younger man's side in seconds, John shook the facedown form of his friend. "Sherlock," he pulled him roughly around onto his back and pulled open one eyelid. The other opened of its own accord then, and he found himself staring into a very confused face. "John?" The doctor sighed, "Yes. What have you done to yourself now?" he asked, dreading the answer, as he thought he could see a syringe on the desk. "What have you taken?" And Sherlock's brow wrinkled down, then sprang up in comprehension.

"Oh! No, John. No." He pushed semi-weakly away from the doctor, trying to sit up, and John ended up having to help him do so. "Insulin. I was seeing how much it took to simply slow your mind." John became utterly confused.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"Because that's how the stripper died, John. The man that she danced for last, he was diabetic. He carried a syringe of insulin with him in his pocket for while he was out drinking; too many carbs in beer, you know. The cap must've come off in his pocket somehow, and when she was rubbing against him, it pricked her. She had about 15-20 minutes before it went into effect. She must've gotten enough to knock her unconscious. She was found lying in a decidedly awkward fashion, though. She fell that way, lightheaded from low blood sugar. And with her medical condition of sleep apnea combined with the poor airway positioning of her landing…it just snowballed a bad situation, and she died."

John took all this in stoically, used to Sherlock's brilliance, but not wanting to praise it at this moment when he had clearly hurt himself on purpose. So he held his tongue about the conclusion and instead focused on what the young man had done to himself.

"So why, then, if you know what happened, did you have to give yourself insulin?"

"To _know_, John."

"Know what?"

"Everything. I realized that had I ever before experienced a hypoglycemic event induced by insulin injection, then I would have had a better understanding of its effects. Then maybe this case would've been solved even quicker. Don't you see?"

John got up and brought the detective a glass of orange juice back with him. "Drink this. All of it. How much did you take?"

"Only about 6 units. Given my metabolism, the fact that I haven't eaten in a good while, and my weight, I figured that was the safest dose."

"The safest…dose…" John whispered unbelievingly to himself. And he stood, looking down at the seated form of Sherlock Holmes, who swayed slightly when he lost John's steadying hand. "Are you bloody insane, then?!" Sherlock's head snapped up, not expecting the outburst, nor the strong undercurrent of anger that made headway in John's emotions. He looked puzzled at the doctor's outburst, which only spurred John into new heights of anger.

"You can't just put drugs into your body, Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, just because you want to _know_ something! People just don't do that!"

"Insulin is a natural chemical occurring in the human body. It isn't as if I were turning back to…oh. Is that what this is about? My previous drug habits?" He stood to face John, almost toppling as he did. "Because, John, I can assure you…"

"No! No. You can't assure me of anything, can you?! You'll just keep on doing things to yourself; glass bits jutting out of your body, bleeding you dry. Drugs injected into you, by your _own_. _hand_." John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, feeling the anger and concern thrumming through his veins. He was scared for Sherlock, true. But it was also deeper than that. How could he make him see?

"John, I really don't think the situation calls for such concern. I am perfectly capapapel…capapabable…capa…I can take care of myself," the slurring detective finished with a swipe down his dress shirt, trying to appear in control and, well, _capable_.

"You can't even speak! How can you possibly think this was safe?!"

"_You're_ here."

"But not all the time! What if….if…gaaahhh! You great fool! How can you be so bleeding smart, and so damnably stupid?! It's like I live with a child!"

Sherlock took affront suddenly, finally sensing through his sugar-deprived mind that John was well and truly going off on him. "What business of yours is it anyway?!" he yelled as he spun away from John, turning to face him a few paces away. "I _live_, for my work. And _this_, this is my work! It's a part of it. You've _known_ that from the start. Don't play the fool, John. It doesn't suit you." And Sherlock made to walk by John then, weakly trying to shoulder him aside with his height advantage, but John stopped him, firmly, with an arm flung out to catch him. It ended up pulling him with the detective a few feet first, though. And the younger man turned abruptly, leaving John with his arm around Sherlock's back, and their faces but inches from one another. The better to feel the anger and hurt rolling of off the detective in waves of heat.

They stared into each other's eyes a moment, each stubbornly gauging the other's resolve in this argument and finding no ground given up. Sherlock broke the silence first, his voice shaking like his body, "You don't _own_ me, John. Mycroft does this, too. Thinks he _owns_ me. _Controls_ me." He shivered. "Never. Again. No one will _ever_…" And he just shut his mouth and stared daggers. John was surprised, but still pissed as all hell.

"I don't want to _control_ you, you great berk! Just keep you safe. From yourself." Sherlock's eyes widened at that, as if he had heard the same words before, from someone else, and they did little more than just anger him further. He leaned down to John's ear, speaking vehemently as he whispered, "Keep me safe? From myself? Oh, John, I had thought better of you. Why should I? Go on. Give me a reason for listening to you. You can't." He pulled his head back to just where they were nose to nose and smiled a cruel smile. And all of the repressed anger and emotion came firing out of the doctor at that moment.

"Trying to control you? What are you on about, you _idiot_? You great, bloody, smart-arse! You think you've got everything figured out, then, don't you?! Because you're the Great Sherlock Holmes! Consulting detective to the stars! The man who doesn't need such normal, boring, ordinary folk like me to blot out the shine in his star!" Sherlock's eyes lost some of their heat as John continued. "You're such a fucking genius that you can't figure shit-all out in the realm of everyday life, can you?! No, you can't! So here I am, screaming fuck-all at you, and you don't care! You're too god damned smart to see what's in front of you!"

Sherlock leaned back, looking, _really_ looking at John in all of his angry glory, from the tightly clenched fist, the rigid torso, the angry set of his face…and the _something_ that dwelt within those eyes of his. What was it? "John, I…"

"No! No, don't you start again, with your accusations! You think you've got me figured out, Sherlock? Do you?! You don't know fuck-all!" John began advancing on the detective, inches at a time, sometimes just a further leaning inwards, and Sherlock retreated, but slower, allowing John to gain ground unconsciously. "But _I_ do. I know _exactly_ what's going on now. With me. With you. And you don't see it! The _great_ detective doesn't see it! Ha!"

"John, I think you need…."

"I'm IN LOVE with you, you _bloody_ _idiot_!" John screamed in his face, hands gripping the sides of the detective's Belstaff. But as the words flew from John's mouth, so too, did his anger. He seemed to retreat a bit as he whispered, "I'm in love with _you_: an impossible man who can't even have the decency to return such feelings." And with that, he pushed away from Sherlock, opened the door and passed through, and carried on down the stairs and out of the flat.

Sherlock stood as if deep within his mind palace, not a muscle twitched or made to move. One could barely tell he breathed at all. His mind spun in turmoil and confusion. John. John. His flatmate. His friend. His John. He saw it laid out before him now, and he frantically sought answers in the morass of bombarding information. Sherlock had analyzed many things in his life. Some comprised of details too minute for anyone else to even spark an interest in them. But he loved it; _lived_ for it. The surge in the ignition of the billion billion neurons within his mind to attain an answer in one penultimate moment of clarity…was intoxicating…but…..would fade, as all things did for him. _Except John_. Thinking of his flatmate now, and the words that he had spoken so recklessly in anger, he wondered. Why? Why _this_ man? He thought of John's eyes, and that _something_ that they held within them. He superimposed himself, in his mind, over John's being; and their visual fields blurred into one. And for just one nanosecond, Sherlock saw himself as John did. _Felt_ what John felt. And he had his answer. "Oh!" came the gasp. And then a sting at the side of his neck. _What?_

A polite, slow applause from one set of hands broke the silence of the flat, and James Moriarty stepped from the shadows of the doorway leading to the stairs. Sherlock's hand flicked up to the sting at his neck, and something fell to the floor. He noted the dart gun spinning lazily in Moriarty's hand. _No_. The other man noticed the direction of his gaze and drawled, "Yes, they're just as fun as they look." He smiled at Sherlock. "Don't worry, won't be but a few. More. Seconds." Sherlock's thoughts attempted to right themselves as the drug coursed along his veins. _John. No…..John_. He fell to his knees, and then over on his side, watching the expensive leather clad feet of the consulting criminal approach him. _John_. He fell into nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So here's a teaser mini chapter to give y'all a taste of what's coming up! Uh oh for Sherlock…**

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, revealing a wondrously stocked and furnished study. _Must be, hmmm, maybe second floor? Definitely not ground. One door, locked. Small vents. One phone._ His vision sharpened as he came more into the conscious realm, and he found himself staring across at James "Jim" Moriarty. The consulting criminal's profile was all he could make out for the moment. And then the events prior to him blacking out came flooding back with echoes of fear and helplessness. _John!_ Jim must have been in the flat the entire time. Or, possibly, he had been observing the flat from a ways down the street and has seen John leave, letting himself in since John had been in a hurry and hadn't bothered to lock the door behind him. _Damn_, he thought to himself as he realized his wrists and lower abdomen were secured with duct tape to the free standing chair he sat in. There must be no one nearby who would rush to his aid either, or else his captor wouldn't have left him ungagged. Curious, a bit that. And then those dark eyes flicked sideways, and Jim turned to face him, the light traces of an Irish accent still clinging to his words.

"Good morning, dearie. I realize that you've already analyzed this room about three times by now, so there's no need for me to tell you that it's a hopeless cause to try for escape at this juncture."

Sherlock locked eyes with the man, saying, "Secured to a chair, higher than ground level, me waking to face you dead on….how very…_conventional_ of you," he sneered. "Got big plans do you? Ask my brother to trade for government secrets? Force Lestrade to stand by while you do…whatever it is that you actually do?"

Jim smiled a tiny, fast-dying little grin as he first looked down, then back up at the detective. He grabbed something from his jacket as he walked slowly over beside Sherlock. Then he held it out for him to see while he toyed with it. A small, sharp, dagger. "Oh, those are all _normal_ ideas, Sherlock. Uninteresting. I've got to go a step farther for _you_. After all," he crouched down a bit, chanting, "I. Owe. You." He stood back up fluidly, circling the chair once to return before his prisoner, speaking in his favored sing-song voice, "I've got something _special_ for yoooouuuu." He twirled the knife. "An offer. And one of a kind, too. Too good to pass up." Sherlock stared up at him in challenge, obviously not believing a word Moriarty spoke. "Aren't you ever…lonely?" Jim began. The knife stopped spinning. "Oh yes, you _are_, aren't you? That's what you were trying with, what's his name, your little pet? John? Yes, you were going to play with him, weren't you?" The knife resumed its slow turns as the slight man began to walk once more.

"Don't you need someone who _understands_ you? Sherlock?" he drew out the name like a prayer, almost whispered. And he reached over from behind and ran the blade along the detective's ribs as he spoke softly, circling. The sharpened edge slid along and up to the side of Sherlock's temple as he continued speaking, "Someone who _thinks_ like you?" He was just about returned to his position in front again. His grip adjusted on the knife as he suddenly straddled those long legs, pressing against the detective firmly and looking into those silvery blue eyes, so cold, and continued, "_Feels_ like you?" And then, just light enough to draw blood, Jim nicked his own forearm with the knife, holding it up between them, and watched in silent fascination as the blood ran downward and onto their laps, eyes flickering to Sherlock's intermittently, his voice almost inaudible now, "Someone, who_ bleeds_ like you?" The consulting criminal's eyes cast their unholy light up to Sherlock's own as he fondled the red-tinged dagger lightly…and he smiled, "_Do_ you bleed, as I bleed, Sherlock?" The detective merely steeled himself for the pain to come. But suddenly, the ever-fickle Jim Moriarty jumped up and strode over to his computer.

"Have to keep tabs on your friends!" he said merrily. "Wouldn't want them barging into our party too soon. We need to be sure there's plenty of 'us' time first." His hands flew over the keys, stopping here and there as he focused on something. Then, he sat for a moment, studying the screen and pulled the knife up to file at his nails as he waited for some unknown sign. "They're awfully dense, you're _friends_." And he lapsed into silence, watching, waiting. Sherlock finally figured he was getting no facts by remaining quiet, and he was starved for a bit of information, any piece of data, that he could analyze and put to use for himself. So he chose a course of confrontation with the most chance of successfully garnering him what he was in for here, as this madman's captive. Though he had an idea, and the physicality of it sickened him, especially with this newfound question of John. He could survive physical assaults on his person, but how would it affect John? _That's a matter for later consideration, though. For now: information reconnaissance_.

"It's disgustingly mundane, what you're doing." Jim looked up from filing his nails as the sound of Sherlock's voice broke through the silence of his study. He cocked his head, smiling as if to say, 'Go on.' The detective continued from his tethered position. "So, you're going to, what, _rape_ me?" he said, popping the 'P' in the word rape, making it sound such a tedious action. "Threatening me with such physical brutality…." he shook his head as if in reprimand…"Ordinary. Predictable." His silver eyes locked on the other man's as he finished, "_Boring_." And Jim smiled all the wider, setting aside the knife and standing to cross back over to the restrained detective. He leaned down into Sherlock's eye level, absent-mindedly running a gentle hand down the side of his prisoner's face before speaking softly. "Oh, I want your body, Sherlock," he began, leaning ever closer to an ear to whisper, "But I'll have your _mind_ first." His hand glided over a shoulder and began tracing down the length of the taller man's lean extremity. "Mind first. Then the body. Will. Follow," he finished, tapping the arm to emphasize each of the last few words. Sherlock's gaze was as ice as he stared in challenge to this declaration. And Jim bit his bottom lip, nodding, as he leaned back and looked thoughtfully down at his prisoner, still smiling. Only it didn't reach his eyes. "And the best part? After a while, you'll hate yourself. You will _**hate**_ _yourself_, Sherlock…..because you'll want this, too."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Y'all stay with me. It'll get dark….**

"_And the best part? After a while, you'll hate yourself. You will __**hate**__ yourself, Sherlock…..because you'll want this, too."_

Jim slid a hand up to the neck of the dark haired detective, humming softly as he did, observing the visible pulsation of life beneath his fingertips. His hand ran through the base of the soft curls and back down again along to the shoulder, with Sherlock attempting to turn away from the contact. Ever mercurial and shifting, Moriarty's temperament had flowed into its next incarnation. One could almost forget the deep and dark hatred that had just been vomited forth but moments ago. These sudden changes often kept his enemies off-balance. And friends, too, if any could ever be so named. He slipped one hand into Sherlock's, squeezing, as if in support of something frightening to come. The other gently retraced the upward stroke of blood through his prisoner's carotid…oh, so, gently. As if Sherlock were made of spun glass. It came to a stop as his humming changed tunes, transitioning into a nighttime lullaby, sweet and lilting in its peaceful chorus. And the consulting criminal began to apply a precise, direct pressure to the arteries on either side of Sherlock's trachea. The detective stared the other man down as he did so, determined not to give in to his intimidation games. Jim wouldn't kill him. Not _yet_ anyway. So that meant the man choking him would merely be trying to make good on his promise of…whatever it was, exactly, that he thought he was going to accomplish here. He tried not to struggle, remaining rigid, even as the heavy weight of darkness began to settle around his shoulders. His vision dimmed, leaving only the vague impressionistic outline of his captor against a field of blackness as he slid into unconsciousness on wings of smoke and mirrors.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The music was so soft as to almost be imagined. It swirled among the prisoner's awareness like water before a dying man. Teasing. Tantalizing. His thoughts were too cloudy as yet to put a name to the melody, but he thought he recognized it. Maybe. After blacking out, his mind was slowly returning to its former focus. Cognizance replaced the temporary escape of his dreams. His surroundings remained constant, so he hadn't been moved while out. Expensive, and spacious, the study was lined with books, ledgers, and all other manner of the written word. A large mahogany desk with a high backed leather chair behind it was positioned about ten feet away, whereon his nemesis perched. A window, most likely directly behind him by about another fifteen feet or so, let in the last of the day's sunlight, settling across the walls around him in warm tones. That light alone informed him that he had only been out for maybe a half hour. And the air hung stale, cool, and dry, despite the occasional breath of wind let in by the aperture of the window. No sounds drifted up through that open space either, he noticed. Everything seemed calm, very much too calm. And here he sat, the prisoner, wrists taped securely to the arms of his own leather-clad, mahogany chair. And another band rested about his waist, connecting him to its back. He sat there. Sherlock Holmes. Trapped.

He looked closely at the desk and its owner, who sat facing him nonchalantly across it. Something flickered across his mind, and his brow drew down. Fear? He considered it. Perhaps. Hadn't he been listening to his captor drone on about something before he was slowly choked into unconsciousness? A promise owed? Plans…for him… Something…about… His head snapped up, making eye contact with Jim, his awareness returning fully with the memory of what the man before him had assured. Not just a physical assault, but mental as well. And a cold shiver worked its way up his spine when he saw the way the consulting criminal had fixed his eyes upon him. There was something in the other man's hands, and he toyed with it in a most distracting manner. A syringe, partway full, came forth into his view for a second. Jim's fingers slid lovingly over the body of it, and another hypodermic rested beside his elbow. Now that he knew he had his party's attention, Jim moved, suddenly grasping the syringes in one hand as he flowed upward and stepped toward the detective, dragging another smaller chair with him.

Not a word was said between them as Jim sat down beside him and grabbed the sleeve cuff on Sherlock's left arm roughly, tearing the fabric up to the crook of his elbow. The criminal's gaze wandered down with great interest at the tiny, almost invisible, scars that dotted this area. Footprints of a past not long forgotten. He gripped the distal end of Sherlock's bicep, creating a tourniquet with his hand alone, and the veins responded within seconds. The two syringes were brought over with the other hand, laying one to rest across his lap as the other came down against the vulnerable skin overlaying the surfacing blood vessels. Jim bit his bottom lip as the first slid home, and he released his pressure hold above the insertion site as he began to slowly inject the one containing white fluid.

"Very low dose of propofol. Quick acting, but very short lasting. In larger doses it causes a hypnotic state and amnesia. This dose will simply make you more…pliant." He removed the syringe without injecting all of the white liquid. "Saved a bit for an actual injection so it'll be absorbed slower; last a while longer." Sherlock could feel his head becoming foggy already as the remainder of the syringe was then jabbed through his shirt and into his deltoid. He could barely feel the burn. That probably wasn't a good thing, he thought passingly as the other man pulled the second syringe forward, repeating the same tourniquet action. Blood from the previous injection site welled up and dripped to the floor as Jim selected another vein and slid the point through. "Insulin, calculated on your body weight and the last meal I saw you eat. It'll keep you weak, and your mind slow. I thought it appropriately poetic, considering your last case led me to think of it."

The syringes were quickly discarded once finished, Jim letting the injection sites clot off on their own, which created a small puddle of blood beneath the side of Sherlock's chair. The detective fought to keep his awareness about him, but he could feel the encroaching sluggishness of his mind. And he realized with horror that he was unable to focus and locate his mind palace, where he had planned to retreat during any planned physical assaults. He struggled feebly, trying to mouth off at his offender. Jim just smiled back, stroking Sherlock's hair away from his brow and leaning down to his ear, "How does it feel?" He leaned back to gauge the reaction to his question. The wild haired detective just stared, numb, back at him. A light perspiration had begun to gather on his brow. So Jim repeated himself.

"How does it feel? To be ordinary? To be _boring_?" Sherlock tried to twist his arms, but they were so heavy, so useless. Jim noticed and smirked, bringing out his knife once more. A slow shot of fear tore across the detective's body at the flash of cold metal. But Jim merely sliced through the tape securing Sherlock's wrists, leaving him tethered by his waist only. His arms fell from their perches and dangled limply. Even holding his head up was becoming an effort. And he watched as Jim replaced the knife in his pocket and crawled across from his own chair to straddle his lap. Sherlock opened his mouth once again but could get nothing useful to emerge, so it just hung there, partway open, his glassy eyes looking up into Moriarty's deep brown ones.

Jim ran his hands over Sherlock's arms and shoulders, humming appreciatively to himself before finally settling one hand on a shoulder and the other at the detective's cheek, dragging a nail down it. "Nothing to say? No witticisms?" He gripped Sherlock's chin in his hand. "How about this?" He squeezed harder. "You _need_ this, Sherlock. You've known it for a long time. Without _me_, you're nothing." Then he tipped the detective's head up a bit more for inspection, as if checking the drug's effects. He was quiet for a moment before breathing into the silence, "You're nothing. But together…we could be…" He closed his eyes, finishing, "_everything_." He stroked his hand lovingly along the long, pale throat, hovering over the pulsing artery for but a second before moving on, teasing about his previous strangling.

"Aren't you curious? Don't you want to see the puzzles of the world that I have available at my fingertips?" He brought his head down to where his lips just brushed the other man's neck and shoulder. Sherlock's head tilted somewhat to the other side of its own accord, granting more access to the site without meaning to. Hot breath flowed over his skin, "Your potential," a light lick to the skin of neck, "is endless," and another, "with me by your side." A soft kiss to the same area followed, gently deceiving in its delivery. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he fought to push out Jim's words and ignore his actions, the combination of the hypnotic and insulin making the ordeal worse by threefold.

"No judgments for your actions here with _me_," Jim continued, working his way down the line of the shoulder and then back to the clavicle. "You could do," a slow lick, "whatever," a longer swirl of tongue over the bone, "you," a kiss, "like." He leaned back, looking into the face of his captive. "With no recrimination." He leaned into Sherlock's face, causing the eyes to open, their silvery depths clouded for now. But still Jim could read their echoing interest, even through the confounding effects of the drugs. He smiled, almost shyly, and leaned down to place a quick, chaste kiss to those beautiful lips, saying afterwards, "No punishments, because there are no rules."

The second kiss began as one-sided. Then, much to Jim's surprise, and secret delight, those lips moved against his. And that oft-sharpened tongue just barely grazed his own, sending a shiver of thrill down through his bones. He slid forward a bit more on the detective's lap, creating a hot friction between them, and raised his hands to the other man's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes had fallen shut again as his mind circled the dregs of his brilliance. But his traitorous body unconsciously sought the promise of completion in both the physical and mental act of lust. He tried to raise his arms to hold Jim in some way; or maybe to push him away? But they wouldn't react to his will. _Why won't they move?_ The kiss deepened as Moriarty slid flush against the detective, tongue sweeping in and claiming his mouth. He almost lost track of his arms at the feel of the other warm body pressed along his. But then…

_I…I can't…move…why?...I…what is…he…what am….I…no….no….No….No…NO!_ And he thrust his head to the side, breathing heavily as he came to the surface of the fog for but a few moments, horrified at the results of their prolonged contact. Long enough to see the coolness return to Jim's eyes as he tilted his head and spoke. "See now? How's it feel?" He reached out and stroked the detective's chest once more. "Good, wasn't it? No price to pay. Just take what you want. Do what you want." He stood, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock. "You think about it. And in our next session, we'll see how much _more_ agreeable I can get you." He smiled, then leaned over as if about to be imparting a secret, "Just know that the drug combinations I'm administering won't cause you to act any different _morally_ than you normally would; other than being slower mentally and lowering your inhibitions, that is. Your choices are still your own. Sooooo…" He pulled back and strode off, calling over his shoulder as he went, "…thanks for the kiss!"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Whoa damn, people. I've been channeling some serious angstiness for this chapter. Thanks a lot to Revella for egging me on and letting me bounce ideas off of her (be they crappy or not). And for those who asked me what the timeline for this fic is in relation to the shows: This fic would take over from the middle of The Reichenbach Fall. Everything up to where Jim comes over and has tea with Sherlock happens. After the tea part, then my fic picks up. So there.**

By the time John returned home, it was late. Very. He'd already had a bad day in the clinic, an argument with his best friend…and had revealed a secret that was never meant to come forth- even to himself. That last part had deflated his anger quickly as he walked the darkened streets of London. It was less a revelation than an acceptance of what had already developed. Unacknowledged feelings that led down paths neither had trod before, though in differing ways for each of them. And he had to figure, Sherlock's path was steeper and more twisted than his own. This would not be something the detective welcomed, John was sure of it. Though there had been gestures and actions from both sides that bespoke of the more-than-platonic existence they shared now, he had to face the reality that was Sherlock Holmes: an impenetrable fortress of mental acuity and sharp words. If the man had ever loved before, then there was no evidence to support it. Though it wasn't as if the man had absolutely _no_ feelings at all, given his obvious alternating affection and annoyance with Mrs. Hudson. But that was merely _affection_, _fondness_. And it was rarely allowed to see the light of day. Of deeper, stronger emotions, there was no evidence. Not a trace. And if his relationship with Mycroft was any example of the family he had been born in to, brought up in…then that could be John's unfortunate answer.

He had considered Sherlock's actions over the last week or so, and also the ones witnessed tonight. He had examined them from every possible angle he could conceive of, almost to obsession. It was crushing to admit your love to another, and then have nothing returned. True, he hadn't stayed long enough for Sherlock to respond to his admission, but the look of surprise on those aristocratic features had shown him at least that it hadn't even occurred to the other man before that. "I'm an idiot," he muttered as he climbed the stairs. He stole a glance upwards, noting that the door above was open…and that he had shut it when he had left. Had Mrs. Hudson come by? No, she would've shut the door on her way out. Not like Sherlock… Had Sherlock gone out then? He pondered a moment. No. Even for _him_, leaving the door to the flat open while both of them were gone was a bit out of character. So what then?

He couldn't explain the feeling that began to settle within his bones as he gained the top of the stairs. It was an eerie premonition of things to come. Like the moment before you started falling, when you just realized that your footing had given away. And he stood there, peering through the opening, wondering at this oddity. _Nerves_, he reasoned, and passed through the doorway and into the living area. His feet carried him perhaps five paces into the room before his hands went numb, and the feeling resolved itself into full-throttle fear. Not the fear for one's life, but the fear for another's.

The flat was calm. Peaceful. Undisturbed. Terrifying. He forced himself to take it slowly, breathe, and focus on his surroundings. All of the furniture, knickknacks, and other household items were as they should be. The windows were closed. Nothing was disturbed. And yet, the room itself was disturbing him. His eyes finally fell to the floor, and his heart skipped, skipped, _hurt_…. There was something on the floor. A piece of paper? Trash? A note? He walked quickly over and identified it as an old-style Polaroid, which he bent down and then brought up to eye level. His mind could barely process what he saw as his vision dimmed around the scene depicted there: Sherlock, lying face down on the floor with his head turned sideways toward the camera, eyes closed. It was unclear whether he was dead or unconscious, but John suspected the former, for now, as he studied the features of the picture's second subject…James Moriarty stared winsomely up at him, his face held down level with the detective's, grinning widely in this old-fashioned version of a selfie.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I'm not afraid of you, James. Killing me would get you nowhere; it's illogical; so you won't. You'd have nothing to occupy your time, then. No _nemesis_ to play with, to taunt." The air was cool, but still, as he spoke. The detective could barely raise his enfeebled arm to gesture in dismissal of the threat the other man posed. Damn the insufferable bastard and his strength-robbing cocktail! Sherlock lay helpless on the mattress he had been deposited on, able to talk, able to think (albeit slowly), but too weak to even roll over. He must have finally passed out before, in the chair, from the drugs' influence, because when he next gained awareness of his surroundings, he found himself horizontal in a small, shadowy, and blank room. His shirt was gone, having apparently been removed at some point while he was being relocated; ostensibly for the placement of the IV he now had.

There were restraints on his wrists and ankles, but they were slack, allowing for a good deal of movement. All planned meticulously in correlation with his weakened state, no doubt, because there was no way he could make good use of the loosened bonds. His focus shifted to the more proximal. Moriarty lay stretched out alongside him, only scant inches between their torsos, crisp Westwood hugging his slight frame as he reached up to stroke the detective's face while finally responding to the other man's statements. "Oh, Sherlock," Jim hummed as he nuzzled into the soft, dark curls. "I won't be your end," he breathed onto the ear lobe in front of him before giving it a teasing nip. "I'll break you down. Take you apart." He shifted up to his side so that he was propped on his elbow looking down into Sherlock's confused gaze. "I won't be your _ending_, Sherlock," he smiled as he leaned far over, touching their noses together. "But _we_ will be your beginning."

Jim rolled off of the mattress and walked over to the bedside table. It was dim in the room, everything bathed in grays, except for the blue light shining from the screen of the IV pump as it relentlessly trickled the hypnotics and other vile chemicals into the detective's body. The shorter man smiled as he rummaged through a container on the table, smiling as he found what he sought. He turned to look down at Sherlock as he explained, "I'm going to try a little _teensy_ something else on you this once. Want to know what it is?" The detective's now steel-gray eyes met his with an emotionless gaze, as if he couldn't bothered to wonder at Jim's silly games. It affected the consulting criminal not at all, though, as he proceeded with his tutelage. "There's some good bits in here, Sherlock," he teased. "Some very little amounts of ecstasy and other, hmmmm, _stimulants, _of a sort…." Those steel eyes blinked once, the only hint that the words had been absorbed. Though outwardly cold to the world, inside Sherlock's mind, he fought desperately. The drug combinations Jim was hinting at were designed for maximum loss of inhibitory factors in the brain. It was all about altering his mood, his basic principles, so as to allow…what? But _**we**__ will be your beginning,_ Sherlock heard replayed in his head. And in that moment, all that was at stake fell into his focus. What better way to defeat Sherlock than to convert him? Alter him chemically and then add psycho-suggestive elements…. _Oh….__**no**_. And Sherlock felt fear pour into him. Pure, cold, and hard, like the bedrock at the base of a glacier. Baskerville's momentary fear couldn't relate, couldn't _compare_, to this. With Baskerville, it was an outside, unknown entity stimulating the fear. Now, he knew _exactly_ what he was facing, what he was afraid of: _himself_. Because he knew just what _he_ was capable of…..and it scared him more now than it had scared Mycroft when they were younger…..

He started as he felt the initial burn and sting of the new 'medicines' added to his current infusion. Jim smiled and laid the empty syringe down, crawling back in bed beside the detective. Heat swelled up within his body as the drugs reached his heart and spread their fiery influence to throughout his periphery. He felt as if he were rising off of the mattress, though that was impossible with his restraints. He fought to keep perspective of his _actual_ reality and not give in to the new one attempting to superimpose itself on him. But, _oh_, it was _hard_! Sherlock's eyes rolled back, fluttering closed as Jim's hand was suddenly roaming across his bared abdomen, the well-manicured nails scoring lightly. Every sense was heightened. Every nerve burning with a fire that both cleansed and tortured. _No!_ He tried thinking of Mrs. Hudson and her God-awful blouses and worrying remarks. He thought of Lestrade and his propensity for teeth picking and making that little clicking noise. He even thought of Anderson and his, his…_self_…..but even _that_ was of little success in staving off the _thing_, the _beast_, that was growing and rising within his chest like the scream of a thousand dead things. A result of the drugs, sure, but as real to him in this time and place as his own blood and bone.

He gulped in a large breath as Jim shifted himself once more against his side, and he felt the proof of the man's arousal. Even fully clothed, it was still a violation. Or was it? _Yes. Yes, it most definitely is!_ However, it felt so good… _No! No, it doesn't!_ But, if he even _could_ pull away…would he? He'd like to think so. His mind seemed to be flitting from one sensation to the next. And as those cool fingers made a quick teasing dip in, and back out, from under the front of the detective's slacks, he felt his arms try to reach out of their own accord to the source of his stimulation. And Jim noticed, smiling lazily. He pulled even closer alongside the detective, nipping at his neck and whispering, "Pieces, Sherlock. Like London Bridge. Falling down, down, down." He licked his way from the shoulder to the base of the throat, "I will break you into pieces. I will watch you fall apart, in my hands." His voice deepened, "_By_ my hands."

And Sherlock struggled to find purchase on the slope that led down to this crucial temptation of knowledge coupled with ultimate power and physical excesses. No rules, except those you made yourself. Ideal, for one such as he. And yet…and yet…there was _something_… The other man had started kissing down his jawline, simultaneously running a hand along a thigh, each stroke coming teasingly closer to the groin. Little sparks felt like they were following those hands on his trousers. What was it?! It was there, _so close_. His drug-addled brain made connections too slowly. But in the end, they _did_ still make them….. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. _John_.

He struggled, weakly, but still enough to alert Moriarty to his brief return of awareness. "Oh well," Jim drawled, halting his actions. "Guess we'll have to continue working on you after all. But that's alright. I've got the best chemists in the world working for just, this, purpose, right now. So it won't be long. Be right back." He pushed off the bed and left the room briefly, returning with a small baggy of IV fluid that had a cloudy, slightly turbid look to it. He deftly hung it, spiked the bag, primed the tubing, and connected it in to the secondary port on Sherlock's IV. He gave a half grin, dropping the length of the tubing after finishing, and began programming the machine as he spoke. "We'll try a bit of this for about a half hour, see what happens. Do scream if it's too much." He leaned down closer over the detective, saying slowly, huskily, "I would _so_ love to hear you scream, Sherlock."

The detective didn't bother watching the other man leave the room, closing his eyes almost immediately after those last words had left Jim's lips. He had to hurry. All of his efforts of resistance were refocused inward. Sherlock sank far down into his mind palace, its buildings and myriad thousands of rooms spread out before him, searching through its solace and escape from the darkness of the small room he had been locked into. His body may lie secured to a bed, but his mind at least was still free to roam. For now. Although, who knew how long that would last? Already, he could feel the effects of the new medicine flowing into his veins through the IV secured to his wrist; even this far down into his memories, it burned. Jim had as much as promised that he would keep him permanently semi-sedated and weak with either hypnotics, insulin, or otherwise. For an undetermined length of time. He had no idea what other torments of _mental_ design might be in store for him. But he could imagine... Sometimes, his burgeoning brilliance was not such a boon; because he _knew _James Moriarty. Had deduced him. And felt he was intimately aware of what the man was capable of. In this knowledge, he was not gladdened. He felt a rush of lightheadedness sweep over him. _Must hurry_, he urged himself as he sought deeper within the recesses of his mind.

He fell through level after level of blindingly intricate mazes of memory and light, seeking, seeking… And there, he found him. John. His John. His favorite memory of him at least: brown woolen jumper, bluejeans, and sturdy work boots. Lifelike and responsive in every way. And it was for this he had searched, for he had hidden him deeply already, even unto making it difficult for _himself _to locate the memory. He paused, observing the likeness of the doctor he had created in his mind. Perfect. Everything. Perfect. From the slightly tanned coloring, the weathered appearance from too many days in the sun of Afghanistan, and the careworn look to his eyes that he only shared with Sherlock. Relief flooded through the detective that he was still there. The doctor stood in a cleared away area of almost-nothingness, a gray sky all around and above him. The rooms and buildings of the mind palace remained stationary in the backdrop, seeming frozen in a time all their own. The detective approached slowly, speaking as he did.

"John." The seeming ghost of John Watson turned toward his voice, and the younger man advanced, lifting and placing his hands lightly upon those strong, dependable shoulders. "I've got to do something, John. And you've got to let me." The doctor looked puzzled and tried to speak, but Sherlock wouldn't allow it. "No. Please. Let me tell you this." He stopped, looking at the ground between their feet, searching for the words. Powerful words. Painful words. Here, in the safety of his mental fortress, he could fear no judgments for his actions. His sentiments. Here, where everything was by _his _rules, and by _his _will. He looked back up into the specter's eyes, seeing the warmth reflected back at him. So real. So reassuring. So _John_. It would be missed. _He_ would be missed. Greatly. He continued, finally finding his courage as he glanced at the landscape wavering around him. The drugs were taking firmer hold.

"I don't have much time, John. He's trapped me. He's really got me this time. Take away my intelligence, and what have you? Just a man. A troubled man, in an impossible situation." He cleared his throat, feeling his eyes begin to sting. "And this man must choose a course of action." His eyes found John's once more, and steel entered his voice. "You will find me. I have no doubts. But it will take _time_. Time I don't have. Jim is clever. Oh, is he _clever_. He knows just how to beat me; to get to me." A sick, macabre grin tore his face as he looked away for a second, "I could almost convince myself we were made for each other, he and I." And then his eyes swung back to John's, lightning forming within their almost azure depths. "Except that there's you. And _you_, John, disprove that theory." He sighed. "You keep me grounded. _Human_." Another deep breath with a pause. "And so I must make a choice. One that I will not be able to live with long after; but I shall live longer than if I were to keep fighting at this. Fighting _him_. And it will give you time." His hands ran slowly down the doctor's arms, who glanced down in surprise to see this gesture of affection from the self-proclaimed sociopath. The long, artful fingers came down to rest on John's wrists, enveloping them.

"I must put you away. Somewhere safe. Protected. Where even_ I_ can't find you." Sherlock looked up at the blank slate sky, the backdrop around them warping slowly into a maelstrom, the tops of buildings twisted and pulled towards the center of which. Wind picked up around them, fluttering through their hair and clothing. "He means to take _everything_ from me. And that means his task is very simple. He must only take _you_ from me, John." A pause as he calmed the swelling emotion within himself. "Through drugs, or shock therapy, or mental destabilization. It matters not _how_ he does it. He will win eventually, if I continue to fight him. The transport that bears me can only take so much before capitulating." Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, allowing the thin ribbon of tears that had formed to flow forth and down his cheeks, and he reached a hand up to John's face, drawing a thumb down the other man's cheek. "I shall hide you where he'll never be able to reach you," he whispered. "And when you find me...finally...try not to judge me too harshly for my actions, whatever they may be. Know that I…will not be myself, as you know me." He drew a ragged breath, an almost-sob, "I may not recognize you when next we meet. But I _will_ recognize the good in you." His heart clenched tightly within him, the pain exquisite. "And that, I hope, will keep you protected, keep you safe..…from me," he finished pitifully. His voice dropped to a whisper that only he could hear, spoken more to himself, "And I…..I will simply be waiting for you to wake me up from this nightmare." He took John's hand slowly, gently, feeling like death had crept inside of his soul…..and led him into the darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

One Week Later…

Silver-blue eyes snapped open like a crack of lightning, pale features as blank as new canvas. Still, everything. So still. The eyes were the only evidence of awareness, for the body lay immobile, as if in homage to death. Sherlock's normally piercing gaze seemed empty initially, still filled with the void of sleep and dreams. But what had woken him? He strained his awakening senses, much more attuned to detail than ever before thanks to the many and varied tortures of both sensory deprivation and overstimulation he had born up under during the last….how long? He realized he had no idea. He could recall vague flashes of indistinct memories, though he was unsure whether they were real or fashioned by his destabilized mind. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his vision and mind simultaneously. His room remained the same as every time he had slipped toward the surface of his suspended unreality. Plain, unadorned, white, sterile. And always dim, only allowing for partial illumination. He turned his head as he noted that the blue glow from the IV pump was absent. Yes, there it was beside him. Off. No tubing hung from the pole. No medicine. No drugs.

He realized with a start that his wrists were unbound and jerked his arms upward, feeling along them with his fingers as if to affirm this. He glanced quickly at all four corners of the room, his gaze finally settling on a camera in one of them that faced his bed directly. He stared into it momentarily, weighing his options. Then he gave a mental shrug. Why care anyway? Gingerly, he pushed himself up from the mattress and lightly placed his bare feet on the cool wood flooring. The loose cotton pants they had him in were his only item of apparel. He ran a hand through his hair, noting that someone had obviously been bathing him, as it wasn't matted or otherwise. And, not being one to care overly much about such things as modesty, he moved on.

His back ached, and his limbs felt ill used, but he felt in decent repair overall. His eyes stopped for a minute when they found the small cotton ball taped over where the IV had been in his hand. Why had that been necessary in the first place? He struggled with the memory, but it wouldn't come to him. And who was that man he had dreamt of? The one that seemed to appear every night, even when he screamed in anger at him, demanding his name? He felt he should know him, and well. But the connection simply escaped him for now. Mist flowing through his grasp. No matter. As it seemed he was expected to find his own way about, he would leave these questions for later, if at all.

He stood, wobbling a bit at first, and then steadying himself with a hand on the bedrail. He saw clothing laid out for him across the foot of the bed, and he smirked as he noted the brand. Moriarty was here apparently. He felt this should mean something to him. Scare him, maybe. At least be a source of worry. But in truth, it meant very little. In fact, _everything_ seemed to be diminished. Bland. Uninteresting. He wondered at this. He could only remember feeling this sort of apathy years ago, before Lestrade had found him and given him a drive, a purpose, for his mind. What was it? Some sort of investigative…thing. His mind was so hazy. He even had trouble picturing the DI's face. When had he _ever_ had issues with recalling things? He sighed, loudly, stealing a glance at the camera before stripping nude and dressing in the doll's clothing he felt had been laid out for him.

The suit was snug, flattering every inch of his long, lean, frame. Such a deep, dark blue that is was almost black. Matching slacks and polished shoes followed. He truly _had_ been undressed by someone, then, judging by how well-tailored these clothes were. He stood in front of the mirror, feeling as though a stranger was staring back at him, and the door behind him opened. A very large man entered with a tray of light breakfast. He set it to the side of the bed as he passed the detective wordlessly. Then he turned smartly, facing Sherlock. "Boss says you're allowed the inside of the house. No more, though, until he approves. We'll be watching." He started to leave, then added, "And he said you can take your meal downstairs if you don't take it here, either eaten freely…..or otherwise. Doesn't want you wasting away on him." Short and to the point, the man then walked from the room, leaving the detective to stare after him. He spared a glance for the meal tray, and then he walked forth from his recent prison and into the morning lit hallway.

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"What news, then?" John asked as soon as he crossed the threshold of Greg's office. The DI looked up from his computer, noting the wild hair, the wan complexion, and the darkness under the other man's eyes. He may even have dropped a few pounds. Sherlock's disappearance had torn John Watson's equilibrium lose from its bearings. Not that he himself hadn't been affected. He thought of his half-eaten lunch still sitting in the break room and sighed inwardly. He leaned back, showing his frustration in his posture, hands on his thighs as he spoke.

"There was another Polaroid arrived just an hour ago when I texted you," he said. And he could see the doctor's color grow paler as he quickly added, "Nothing bad! Just….odd, is all." And the clarification seemed to help ease the shorter man's anxiety.

"Well, what is it, then? Where's it at?" John tried to keep the panic from his voice. He needed, _desperately_ needed, evidence that Sherlock was alive, was unharmed. And his fingers twitched as the Polaroid came out of an envelope and was offered up to him. The envelope looked as if it had been 'sealed with a kiss' or some other such silliness. But John had no time for those kinds of observations. His attention was focused solely on the frozen scene captured on the film.

Sherlock sat at the end of a very long, formal dining table. There was fruit, toast, and other light fare displayed in front of him. Yet his utensils appeared to be untouched, much the same as his plate was empty before him. The truly odd thing about the picture, though, was the look Sherlock was giving the cameraman. It was so blank, devoid of any emotion. John considered himself a fair expert on the many moods of Sherlock Holmes, and he knew that if the detective had been scared, angry, or anything else, then _he_ would have been able to tell. Just from one moment captured in time. It made his heart hurt to think of how emotionally close they were now, and yet how far away physically. But still, the younger man didn't look bad, considering. He may be thinner, but then, Sherlock always looked thin.

"So what do you make of it then? I mean, he looks decent enough," he asked Greg, who sat looking at him with his head now resting on his hands, elbows on his desk. The DI reached out a hand and touched the back of the Polaroid with a finger, eyes never leaving John's face. The doctor's brow wrinkled downward, and he flipped the picture over. An inscription was there at the bottom. "First Day of School," John read in a whisper. He looked up quizzically at Greg, who just shrugged as if to say that his guess was as good as any. He looked back to the picture of his best friend on the front of it. _Oh, Sherlock…where are you?_

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The detective walked aimlessly through the many corridors of the large mansion. Any hope of leaving the place was quickly shut down by two facts. There were ample men posted at any given exit. And the mansion itself was apparently located within the center of many acres of land, so there wouldn't be any chance to just skip out and disappear into a crowd. Not that escape particularly concerned Sherlock, but he _would_ like to know his options. So after abandoning thoughts of this nature, Sherlock found himself simply mapping the many twists and turns of the myriad hallways. One of a lesser mind might easily become lost within the place, so vast was its domain.

In a bit, he found himself turning in to a pair of double doors upstairs on the third floor in the late afternoon. And he recognized it. Here was where he had first woken to his imprisonment, though he still couldn't recall quite _why_ he was being held in the first place. He certainly felt no fear for life or limb, so why should his captor feel the need for such precautions? Perhaps it was merely a strange business arrangement they had ongoing? Also, the fact that James Moriarty was always clearly insane, no matter his intelligence level, spoke volumes for this entrapment. Or perhaps…. On second thought, he didn't care anyway, and so he merely continued his perusal of the study. More of a library really. Books lined every available space of the area, he noted as he had upon his first time in the room. And the room itself took a large enough portion of this section of the third floor, making it quite an attractive place to relax. The desk sat as it had before, computer on a lock screen as he passed it by. The window was open to allow a draft inside, and an endless lawn spread out below him.

He turned from the window, and walked to the other half of the room, noting the large television screen set into part of the bookshelves lining the wall. All about it, and in other parts of the room, were wireless speakers. The sound system of a king lay in this room, and Sherlock wondered what was routinely broadcast through it. _Ah_, he exclaimed mentally to himself as he spied the iPod by the screen. And he smiled, almost anyway, as he walked over to the electronic device and picked it up. He tapped at it, noting there was no passcode needed to operate, and then settled it down into the docking station that connected to the sound system and screen. The display flashed once, then the larger television screen took over. He hit the selection that was meant to play the last song listened to. What began to flood the room turned his almost smile into a full blown chuckle, and then a sudden laugh as the very first words erupted into the air. It was the song that Jim used as a ringtone, "Stayin' Alive." Sherlock turned away, figuring he'd allow it to sift through the other man's playlist at will while he used this opportunity to think about his current situation. However, only about 30 seconds had passed since the song started when Jim strolled through the double doors.

Sherlock made a quick evaluation of the lines of Jim's body, seeing that he was unarmed, relaxed, and apparently saw him as no threat. The criminal's eyes slid up and down Sherlock's apparel appreciatively, then his gaze flicked over to the iPod. The music had definitely caught the other man's attention, and he smiled, saying, "How appropriate. Our first song together." Sherlock stared in the most bored expression that he could conjure, seeking to annoy. To no avail, for the one-sided conversation continued, "Have you enjoyed your lessons? Hmmm?" He chuckled a bit, finishing with, "But then, I guess not. They're not the kind you're supposed to remember." The detective decided not to take the bait, and instead chose to ignore.

He merely raised an eyebrow and then resumed his original circuitous route as Jim's gaze turned somewhat more interested in his movements. Strange. Like predator and prey. Only with some sort of intense sexual undertones involved. Even Sherlock, a man of a self-proclaimed hypo-emotional state, could read the tension underlying that scrutiny. Like the other man was restraining himself from such lewd acts as could only be imagined. He wondered suddenly, _What would that be like?_ And he immediately regretted it. There was something in his gut that was telling him to stay away from this man. Sure, it _could_ be the whole keeping-him-prisoner thing, but since the detective didn't feel concerned at his entrapment, he didn't believe that was it. There was some history here that he was missing. But then, at the same time, he was also feeling quite drawn to the man. _Why?_

Perhaps the challenge of such a mental pairing was the appealing factor? He just couldn't be sure, couldn't sort it. It was as if he was both drawn _and_ repulsed by this man. _Why?! _He knew Jim was a criminal of the highest order. He knew that they had, in the past, held an almost-rivalry between them. But he could also remember feeling an electric pull between their bodies whenever they stood in the same room, breathed the same air. Almost like…a constantly evolving rotational magnetism. Sometimes repelling, sometimes pulling. Sometimes hating, sometimes….what? His mind felt so out of sorts while straining to remember the circumstances around their past encounters. Each time, he felt the same thing. He could see them together, confronting; and he could feel the fear, hatred, and…and…and yet also a drive to protect. A caring, warm tone of sentiment. A loyalty unknown to him any time before. Was it Jim who inspired these feelings? He was the only one there, after all. It all felt so strange, so alien, so…..good. So what had stopped him from exploring these sensations before?

Sherlock realized too late that he had been staring. And Jim had a shy, almost bashful little smile play across his lips in return. The shorter man was selecting another song apparently, fingers skimming over the little iPod. And when he found it, he put it on the queue as the next to be played. The current one was starting to fade out, so Jim spoke again now that his voice could be heard more properly for a moment. "Care to dance with me, Sherlock?" And the detective's only reply was to frown harder, confused. Dance? "C'mon, then. You danced before." His voice deepened, "I watched you." Jim's eyes roamed down and back up, the stare blatant, with no subtlety. "It was…_delicious_." And then the old song ended, a few moments of quiet followed, and the next picked up. Sherlock's mind was knocked off track instantly with the choice of music. Apparently, James Moriarty was as intemperate in his music as he was in his personality.

Moriarty, who had seemed more given to enjoying classical music. Moriarty, who was an old-fashioned man in a young man's body. Moriarty, who until this time was thought to have had his contemporary musical interest peak with the 70's era. Sherlock's eyes found the words floating across the programming screen. "Turn Down for What" performed by DJ Snake &amp; Lil Jon. _What the bloody hell?_ The harsh beat of the hip-hop rhythm mixed with electronica filled the room with a pulsing life of its own. It burned through the air like a static charge, and the fine hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck raised a bit when Jim started dancing, giving him a light shiver. The shorter man began with a slow, artistic, pop-and-lock bit with a spin as if to introduce the concept to the detective, and then…..

Sherlock found Jim up against him suddenly, eyes burning with wildfire in their depths as he rocked against the detective's taller form. "C'mon, Sherlock," he leaned to whisper loudly in an ear, hand sliding around the other man's back and down to his hip, pulling them together and moving down and back up in a slow grind. "Dance for me," he growled. He switched hands and brought one up to the still motionless detective's face, dragging a thumb over the lips. His breath was hot over Sherlock's chest as he brought his face down to apply an open mouth to exposed clavicle. Both hands then dragged up along the long torso to end up behind the detective's neck, all while Jim continued to swivel their bodies against each other. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes quickly as he felt the other man sway just the smallest bit in response, and he smiled. In any other context, that expression would have melted the hair from a person's head with the fear it inspired. But again, Sherlock Holmes was not to be measured against such social norms.

As the second half of the music began, Sherlock found himself begin to respond somewhat to the other man's touch. He seemed to half-remember dancing like this before. Where? His eyes shut as he thought, but nothing would present itself. The feel of Moriarty's body against his own…was worrying…was exciting…was wrong? He was slowly adjusting to the beat as he thought it out, trying to delay any realization by Jim about the track his thoughts were on. And then, he realized that Jim had brought his mouth over his own, and his eyes opened in shock as they stood motionless through 10 seconds of the song. Then they fluttered back closed, and….. Sherlock's long, slender fingers shot out and grabbed around behind on Jim's ass and pulled him roughly against the detective as the third portion of the song belted out loudly, the base vibrating through their bloodstream. Sherlock felt a singular thrill at this forbidden thing they did. His mind warped in on itself, bending to accommodate this new data, this new…feeling. And they danced together, against each other, mouths parted and often making brief contact. Dirty, fluid, sinuous. There was no mystery here, only a desire, deep and dark building within him. He had no name for it, no experience with which to compare it. It was raw, like a fresh wound. It was hard, like diamond-based steel. It was [pulse hammering in his chest] it was [hands wandering over burning flesh] it was [minds colliding in an explosion of brilliance] it was [fountainous and wanton need bursting forth] it was [teeth and tongue and blood] it was [anger and hate and desire and angst and sadness and joy and despair and hate and love and hate and elation and hate and forbidden and hate and hate and hate and Hate and HATE] too much…

Jim found himself spun about suddenly with Sherlock behind him, one elegant hand placed delicately around to the divide between hip and thigh the pressure firm yet not; the other snaked up under Jim's own arm and landed in the center of the criminal's chest, pulling him flush against the taller man's form. _Must stop. Now_, was barely heard through the storming thoughts of the detective's mind. But still, it was heeded. Sherlock's head bent forward, almost to Jim's neck, breath blowing out over it, raising gooseflesh in its path. And James Moriarty, despite the massive state of his arousal, exulted in his seeming victory. He could take him now, if he wanted, just one more small nudge in that direction… But still the detective remained there, body rigid, as if he had forgotten what came next, hands splayed over Jim's front. Both breathing hard, they remained this way as the music faded; and with it, the detective's hands also slid away. A twinge of disappointed anger followed this, though Jim hid it for now as he watched the other man walk from behind him and over to the iPod.

Bemusedly, Jim wondered if the detective desired another session. And he was surprised to realize that he actually hoped for that occurrence. The power he felt he had over his nemesis was intoxicating. Here he held a mind like his own. Powerful, unfettered. And together, they could do…_anything_. The breaking had already taken root. Soon, Sherlock would know only this existence. Amazing what a few psychological principles could do when applied synchronously with torture of the senses. Especially when the subject was already somewhat morally compromised to begin with. Sherlock's fleeting smile caught his attention suddenly as the other man found what he had been looking for on the music search. And without so much as waiting for it to start up, the wild haired detective glanced with an amused expression over his shoulder at Moriarty as he strode from the room. Jim stood there frowning, momentarily stunned at the action. But when the song came on, his smile returned as he recognized it immediately: "I Hate Everything About You" by Three Days Grace. And his laughter followed Sherlock down the hallway.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Much love to Revella, who has spurred me onward and made sure my more angsty moments are full of just the right balance of emotional instability. **

Sherlock continued on slowly down the hall, Moriarty's harsh laughter following in his wake. What he had done back there was impulsive, difficult. And against his body's wishes, if he were to admit the truth. In a simpler situation, maybe he would have just given in. But none of it added up. At all. The feelings he experienced from the other man were so conflicting. It truly _was_ as if he both loved _and_ hated him at the same time. Though perhaps _love_ was too strong a word. Perhaps captivated, drawn in, lost…were more apt labels for what he felt in the other's company. But _why_ did he feel these things? An objective review of all their past encounters and confrontations did nothing to quell the confusing blur of emotions. Every interaction between them that he could bring to mind exposed no evidence of what could be inspiring these feelings of affection and loyalty. In every memory, Jim was there, taunting, teasing…often committing crimes of intensely focused hatred against the detective himself….so why the feelings of loyalty, possessiveness…attraction? He shook his head. It was as if the friction of these warring thoughts and feelings was opening a chasm within him; he just had yet to implode with the rest of himself.

Looking up from his feet, he started paying attention to where he was going, attempting to head back in the general direction of his room to sleep. And that was another curiosity. Why did he desire sleep? He couldn't remember the last time he had actually _willingly_ given in to slumber. Yet, his mind kept pulling him towards the world of dreams as though it was on a mission of its own. And then there was that man whose face he couldn't remember when he woke up. So familiar in the dream, yet all but forgotten once awake. Perhaps he should make a trip to his mind palace tonight in place of sleep? Work on a way to gain freedom from his captivity? Though, he _really_ did want to see that man again….and he just couldn't find the inclination to escape. He didn't fear for himself, but he did worry somewhat at the instability of his captor…thoughts for later then. So he decided that, tonight, he would not give in to sleep so quickly. He would stay up, as was his usual wont, and do…something. What, he had no idea. But he was a genius; _someone_ had said so, repeatedly, in his past. So he should be able to find something simple enough to entertain himself with within the Moriarty home. Now, to decide whether that something would be _constructive_…or _destructive_. He smiled.

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When Moriarty finally ceased his laughter at Sherlock's choice of song, he was breathless. The heady feeling of victory might have been swept from under him at the detective's abrupt departure, but the damage was done, for Sherlock anyway. Anyone could see. Sherlock would be his. The way the taller man reacted to him was like an addict around their particular drug of choice. They couldn't help themselves. And neither would Sherlock soon. They were too perfect a match. He grinned as he passed by the wet bar, pausing to pour a small bit of scotch into a short crystal glass. He reached over to a drawer on the right side, pulling a straw out. Not just any straw, though. Long, slender, and red, it looped back around on itself several times before coming to its end. He plunked it unceremoniously in his drink, and turned to face the door.

Two men stood outside of the double doors, one to either side, just a sliver of each was visible from inside the room. There was always at least one man on the study doors at all times, blocking access to the consulting criminal's main computer. Earlier in Sherlock's imprisonment, Jim had let it be known to his staff that the detective was not to be bothered as long as he didn't do anything too stupid or suspicious. Not that any of his several dozen probable members of the Homo erectus designation would _ever_ be able to discern a deception performed by the young detective, but still… Principle. Jim set his drink down carefully as he thought, just for a moment, that there had been a sort of smirk on one's face. He sucked at his top front teeth once, and then strolled over and outside of the doors to stand before them. He kept his hands clasped behind his back as he looked at each in turn, kind of fidgeting back and forth as he spoke, picking at his jacket top. "Something amusing?" he smiled as if there was a joke he was about to be let in on. Neither replied, turning a bit ashen at having their boss's attention so centered on them. For the most part, James Moriarty ruled by dint of his intellectual prowess. However, everyone under his employ also was aware, very aware, that he had a dark streak of obsidian cut straight through his soul, and cruelty could come very easily to the surface. Very quickly.

"Why are there two of you?" he suddenly changed the query direction, affecting a light and airy tone. They remained motionless, each afraid to speak first as Jim paced before them talking almost as if to himself afterward. "There really needn't be _two_ of you here, on one entrance," he reasoned with himself, nodding slowly. Then, Jim sighed dramatically, closing his eyes and tilting his head as though listening to an internal voice, his lips twitching up into an amiable grin. Then those brown eyes snapped up and over as he spun, pulling a gun from around underneath his jacket in one smooth motion. No time for reaction or thought from either silent witness. He fired once, silencer preventing most of the sound from escaping its casing, and the man fell back and to the side, finding that his brain had great difficulty functioning with the metal now residing inside of it.

Jim looked down at the corpse, whose blood was quickly running out of the new orifice the bullet had created. His gaze held no remorse or pity; or even recognition of what he did. It was almost as if he was already thinking of something else. Something pleasing, by the different kind of smile that crossed his features. He then flicked his eyes at the other man, who remained at his post, but had a fine tremor running along his frame. Sweat beaded on his brow, and a tiny muscle along his jaw twitched. Jim walked up and patted his cheek with a beatific expression. "Be a doll and get that taken care of, will you?" he said, gesturing nonchalantly with the barrel of the gun towards the body. The remaining man nodded anxiously, relieved at having been given something to do with his nervous energy, and set to calling for assistance. Jim smiled, feeling much better now, and rubbed the top of his head with the short gun's barrel. All thoughts of ruined hardwood floors puffed out of his consciousness. He retrieved his drink and headed for his room to change. Perhaps a nighttime stroll around would resettle his thoughts? Yes, that would be lovely.

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After refilling his glass once more, Jim settled the black dressing gown around his shoulders, a pair of deep green sleep pants paired with an extra soft matching shirt underneath. He checked himself once in the full-length wardrobe mirror, stopping as he passed by it, always a one for keeping up appearances. And in an instant, his good humor evaporated as he took in his polished appearance; poised, even in pajamas. _Yes, Mom wouldn't have had it any other way….. _He snapped the gown down straighter on his shoulders_. Her…__**clients**__…would have been disappointed_, he thought darkly. His mind almost fell into that dark swell of repressed remembrances for a minute. Then he shook the past with all its groping hands from his thoughts and set out for a late ambling of his hallways, trying to convince himself that he wasn't simply taking a roundabout route to Sherlock's room the whole time. And failing.

He approached the detective's well-appointed, though clinically malignant, guest room with a mixture of anxiousness and, well, _fun_. He hadn't ever thought to find someone so like himself in the whole world, and especially not someone who he had been almost automatically set up against. It was invigorating to think of what they'd be able to do once he had completely turned Sherlock. It gave him a sense of a rush in the pit of his stomach just to contemplate it. Plans spun like strands of gold through the back of his mind, always moving…..always. And it was with these giddy thoughts that he entered….a fort? He looked around himself, bewildered, as he stood just inside the doorway. Beyond was…constructed chaos. Sheets were stretched out across great spans from one wall to the next, connecting to the bedrails, and then onward to the single chandelier. Some were supported by pens that had been stabbed into the wall, others by bits of string the other man had managed to find and procure for such industrious purposes as these. Here and there amongst the display of pristine whiteness, there were smudges of a red substance, sometimes looking a bit on the darker side, maybe brown. They were in no particular pattern that the consulting criminal could decipher, though, so he guessed it was happenstance, whatever it was.

And there, in the middle of said 'fort,' sat the wild haired detective on a pillow mound, wrapped tightly in one of the sheets that had survived the others' maiming. Jim sipped at his drink, keeping the tip of the straw in his mouth as he approached. His head tilted to the side as he studied what lay before him. A few more paces into the room brought him closer to the object of his scrutiny. [Sip] His stare took in the wild construction Sherlock had created, and then moved on to more of the red substance that lay gathering on the floor. _Oh. Blood_. [Sip]. His eyes settled on the detective's hunched back as he then noted the source. Those soft browns widened slightly, then returned to their observation. His lips pursed for a second, and then his voice broke the silence softly.

"So.….you really _are_ a weird one; aren't you?" Sherlock looked up from where he drew lines of blood across his forearm, twisting his head to peer over his shoulder, a smear of the red fluid on his cheek.

"I was bored." He looked back down at his seeping wounds, "Why? What do you do when _you're_ bored?" Jim shifted his feet, then placed one hand on the footpost of the bed, gesturing with his glass in the other as he replied thoughtfully.

"Mmmm, I kill people. Ruin their lives." [Sip] He shrugged. "Not always in that order." [Sip]

Moriarty leaned over the detective's shoulder, trying to read what was carved in blood across the pale skin on the underside of the other man's forearm. It seemed to be more of an actual word than just the random cuttings of a stagnant mind. There was a pattern to it. He stepped closer and leaned down further. And what he saw almost made him fall over, his drink spilling a bit as he righted himself. Sherlock looked up at Jim as some of the amber liquid splashed over him, his eyes questioning. He held up the arm, asking, "Tell me….does this mean anything to you?" Low lighting in the room made it appear a ghastly sight, and the inscription stood out in stark contrast to his alabaster integument: JOHN.

Moriarty looked hard into Sherlock's eyes, searching for a glimmer of deception, of _knowing_. But all he found within those silvery-blue depths was an honest inquiry. And he breathed an inward sigh of relief, confidence in his methods restored. He never knew what, or exactly _when_, he had been able to break Holmes' mind during his "lessons." It was as if a sudden amnesia had taken hold of the other man one day, waking and holding no knowledge of John Watson and his goody-goody influence; freed of his moral compass. His calming and structured presence. _Sickening_. Jim's people had informed him that it was likely to happen this way, so abruptly, but it was still difficult to believe that such a mind as Sherlock Holmes' could be taken in so little time. It begged the question of whether or not his own mind was just as susceptible, and he didn't like that. He didn't like any sign of vulnerability….. But those were thoughts for another time. For now, his captive was looking up into his eyes openly, hiding nothing.

"Biblical reference?" he suggested lightly. And the detective's gaze turned cynical and sarcastic, one eyebrow raised to imply 'You kidding?' Then he snorted and turned back to examining the name carved across the canvas of his white skin. Jim studied the detective's posture for a second, taking in once more the odd manner of garment that had been opted for when readying for bed. It appeared he had doffed the suit for a shirtless, toga look, probably with sleep pants on underneath the sheet that hid the rest of him from view. Its large, white fabric was wrapped securely around the detective, except where it hung somewhat loosely from his slender shoulders. The consulting criminal scanned how it clung to the man's contours, slowly deducing and evaluating in his own way, and finding something odd in his musings. He stepped even closer, now coming to stand fully beside the wild haired man on the floor before him.

"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked, bemused and half-kidding as he returned the straw to his mouth for another pull at his drink. Sherlock shrugged, the sheet sliding down one of his shoulders further.

"Nnnnnnnope," the detective answered, playing with the small blade he had used for his cutting.

The sound of Jim's drink being very suddenly emptied filled the room with a short slurp, attention became laser focused and pinpoint now. He glared at the traitorous empty crystal before setting it down on the bedside table. Rearranging his dressing gown, he stepped to the bed and sat down on it, watching as the detective repositioned the blade in his hand once more as if to cut himself further. Jim watched the rapt concentration pass over those beautifully formed features for a moment before intervening. He leaned forward and smoothly removed the knife from the other man's hands, setting it beside himself on the bed. He clasped his hands in front of himself on his lap, looking into the eyes that now stared questioningly back up at him. Then he reached into his back waistband to pull out the gun for the second time that night.

"Ever play Russian Roulette, Sherlock?" he asked as he ran a finger along the cold barrel, his eyes locked on its metallic length. He snorted a laugh at the thought in his head. "We played it differently in the ghettos of Ireland….._two_ bullets." He smiled, eyes dancing up to meet the detective's, "Care to play with me?"

The words hung in the air between them. Sherlock cocked his head to the side for a minute, expression thoughtful, considering….and reached for the gun.

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John sat on Sherlock's chair, legs folded up under himself. His eyes accidentally landed on the violin, and they squeezed shut, the pain becoming a fire so cold it burned. God, it burned. They hadn't heard anything in days. Under normal circumstances, days gone by wouldn't be near much cause of concern. But this was bleeding _Moriarty_! Who had sworn to 'burn the heart out of' Sherlock. What was happening to his friend? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he hurting? Was he…alive? That last one crushed him, making him sink deeper into the chair. A takeaway box sat forgotten beside him, and he felt cold all over. Premonition? No. He wouldn't think like that.

His eyes held fears best left inside for now. His heart….held things, fragile things, that desperately needed nourishment that only the knowledge of Sherlock's condition could supply. A tear ran the length of his cheek as he thought of the last things he had said to the younger man. Hateful things. Painful, to both of them. And he felt _it_ coming on again, but he didn't fight it. Slowly, a sob wracked him, and he coughed on it, turning his head down and into the fabric at the top corner of the back of the chair. The coldfire burn within himself shone brighter as it consumed him from the core. And the flood came. Again. As it had every day that Sherlock had been gone. Taken. Forever?

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Jim had watched in fascination as Sherlock had placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. _Click_. Nothing. His eyes had held Jim's the entire time, and they sent a shiver down his spine that threatened becoming a full body quake. And just like that, the detective had handed the gun back. And Jim smiled at the further evidence of the success of his lessons. He had taken the gun and repeated Sherlock's gesture exactly, pulling the trigger without hesitation, staring into those silvery depths. _Click_. No all-encompassing darkness. _Ah well, another day, then_, he thought as he set the gun down on the bedside table.

The detective shifted off of his mound of pillows and began to rearrange them, lying down as if to sleep. Jim watched curiously, wondering what he was up to. And when those curls hit the top pillow, the deep baritone floated up to Jim.

"I'll be gone for a while, but you're welcome to stay. Being as it's your place and all," he said with a flourish of his hand.

Initially, Jim was confused, watching the eyes close and the other man's breathing slow. Gone? Did he mean sleeping? Maybe it was….Oh! He nodded as he recalled the infamous "mind palace" that had been mentioned a few times while he had been doing audio reconnaissance on 221B. Interesting…. He had heard John complain, often, of Sherlock disappearing into his "bloody damned palace" several times; often while the doctor was in mid conversation with the younger man. And from all evidence, it seemed that disturbing him once he was immersed was a near impossible feat. He had even heard the detective get rolled onto the floor once without emerging from the trance-like state he entered. And his eyes once more scanned the relaxed features of Sherlock Holmes, a smirk-provoking idea of his own coming to fruition. _Near impossible feat? …..hmmmmmm…..what possibilities.…. Perhaps an experiment of my own?_ He climbed down from the bed and settled himself on the floor at Sherlock's side.

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Sherlock traveled his palace at speeds impossible in reality, scanning everywhere for something, anything, that could lead him to the answers he sought about the odd mixture of conflicting emotions surrounding Moriarty. He had a suspicion that the man from his dreams had something to do with it. Like his subconscious was trying to tell him something. But he couldn't focus on that train of thought. Every time he tried to bring the man to mind, his cognition became slippery and flighty, falling off of the subject at hand every time. Like he had some kind of auto-pilot amnesia. And it frustrated him like nothing had in a long while. He had always had perfect control over the structure, environment, and memories within his mental construction. What made this time so different? _Gaaaaaahhhhh!_ He realized then that he was screaming aloud in his thoughts, frustrated beyond belief.

He spun around to try a new direction, and almost bumped straight into Mycroft. His gasp of surprise, and subsequent anger, was instantly burned to kindling at the look on his brother's face. Storm clouds couldn't convey the danger that Mycroft Holmes was exuding at that moment. And Sherlock sought to go around him, but the other man's hand shot out, catching him in the center of the chest and holding him fast. He felt his feet become wooden, as if they no longer obeyed him. His body was much the same, as if it was in rebellion against his brain's wishes for motion. He struggled against what was, essentially, himself…and he lost.

And once that realization set in, Mycroft smiled beneficently at him, but his hand remained firm on the detective's sternum. The storm clouds in his features were held at bay for now, and Mycroft inclined his head slightly to indicate the region behind him.

"You can't go there, Sherlock. Sorry. Rules _are_ rules, even when they are self-imposed," the older man delivered the words in a matter-of-fact tone. And the younger Holmes fought to discern the meaning behind them.

"Self-imposed? I did this?" he asked incredulously.

"Mm, yes. Rather impressive, actually. Breaking a thing into its component of senses and scattering them. No single one of them will draw the memory out. All must be combined. It's remarkable, even for you, that you ever thought to do something so….._inhuman_." He paused, a look of dark ponderance focused on the younger man. "Or is it?" He smiled then, letting his hand drop and turning to leave as Sherlock's mind raced at the implications here. This was _his_ doing? Why? What could have possibly….

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice cut through his thoughts like a hot blade, and his head swung up to face his brother once more as the other man continued while walking away, "Do be careful, brother. I tried to deduce your heart once for you, remember? And you know the inconclusiveness of _that_ study….." Sherlock tilted his head, remembering a day long gone, distant and cold; but he didn't get far down that path before Mycroft's lingering voice, barely audible anymore as he disappeared from view, drifted back at him, "Better get back now, Sherlock, and see about that thing I was just telling you to guard for…."

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Jim had lain beside Sherlock for a good few minutes, just admiring the planes and angles artfully displayed in the flesh of his body. He reached a hand up and lightly touched each eyelid. No reaction. He ran his thumb across that cupid's bow. Still nothing. He could feel the thrill of this erotically naughty situation building inside himself. So he pushed up onto his side and then leaned down, planting his lips squarely where his thumb had just caressed. And though there was no response from the other man, still the violation of it gave him a tingling warmth that reached his toes. Was this what those pig clients felt as they had lain over him when he was little? A soft, yet firm, warm body, unresponsive but still present? It both disgusted and delighted him to be mimicking similar acts. He broke the one-sided kiss and studied those features once more. He had hated them once. _Why_? He smiled. _Who cares_?

He moved lower, to the chest, placing soft kisses across the clavicle. Then he spread the sheet further, allowing for greater access of the torso. But that wasn't his goal. No. He had seen the detective's torso many times before. Pale and lithe. Just the right combination of muscle and bone without seeming _too_ thin. Delicious, yes. But it wasn't the objective. He moved the sheet further aside, working his way down the abdomen. At the lower portion, a light trailing of hairs led downward. And he followed, parting fabric as he went until he reached his destination.

He knelt between the recumbent detective's legs, having opened the sheet completely, exposing the entirety of Sherlock's body to the soft light of the chandelier. His hands each rested upon a long, firm, thigh. And he tightened his grip as a hot wave rolled over him, nearly burying his control. This was beyond intoxicating, beyond addiction, beyond….._anything_ the consulting criminal had ever experienced. He closed his eyes as he refocused himself, the hardness held against his lower abdomen by his pants doing nothing to help this effort. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, running his hands slowly up along the tops of the thighs, feeling the soft hairs under his fingertips.

Though mentally retreated into his mind palace, Sherlock's body was still here in the present. And it reacted in the manner of any stimulated male. Moriarty watched it happen with a kind of repressed desire, wanting to touch and taste, yet holding back on both. He desperately wanted to remain controlled and calm. Reaching out slowly, he slid one hand along the length of Sherlock, noting how it jumped just slightly, and he grinned. He bent closer, bringing his breath right up against the pulsing member, and he lightly stroked his finger up the side and back down, loving the way it responded.

Next thing he knew, he had taken the tip inside his mouth and was running his tongue around the head. Sherlock's breathing caught for a second at that, and he paused, waiting. When nothing further introduced itself, he continued, moving it an inch or so deeper, tasting more of the man he would never admit to being obsessed with out loud. He swallowed a bit as he tasted the precum that emerged, pleased with the success his experiment was having. His own arousal was aching by now, but he was still able to remain somewhat logical for the moment. Perhaps his hands _did_ grip those creamy thighs just a bit harder than before, but that was just for leverage…right?

He smiled and once more moved a bit further down the length with his mouth, causing a little jolt from the entire body of the other man. He giggled softly and reached a hand up to grasp the base. But as he did, he felt the slackness of Sherlock's muscles change ever so slightly. He pulled back and replaced the sheets where they had been, laying back on his side beside the unruly curls. His hand shot out to smooth a few back as those crystalline eyes opened and turned to find his own.

"Welcome back. I was getting bored waiting for you," Jim said as he began to pull his hand back. But he found his wrist suddenly grasped in those long fingers. And Sherlock's eyes were on him. Oh, they were on him, over him, _in_ him….. He shivered as those fingers ran softly down his forearm and up to his shoulder. Skin blazed with fiery sensation where the other man's touch had grazed. He watched intently, as the detective seemed to be doing some research of his own, making some decision... Though surely he must have realized his own aroused state by now…..

Sherlock's hand darted quickly behind his head, and the detective rolled sideways to bring their lips crashing together and his arms to Jim's waist. Surprise! It was both a fierce and determined gesture; meant as a test, a question, an opening…and Jim took it, kissing back as ferociously as was given to him for a minute before slowing it a bit and wondering at his luck. The wild haired man before him began to give a little, too, becoming less aggressive as Jim pulled away, tugging Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth as he did. The taller man's arms slid further around the criminal's waist and then tugged him closer unexpectedly, putting a small crack in Jim's carefully constructed control. The resulting expression on Jim's face was animalistic, yet cautionary….._dangerous_.

Those deceitfully honest brown eyes bore into his own as they stared in mute examination of one another. Sherlock's eyes went to the other man's mouth, so tempting just to give in a bit more, go a little farther. It gave him a feeling of giddiness that bordered on nausea. _Why_ was this so wrong? He still hadn't found a suitable explanation. And Moriarty seemed to sense the emerging acceptance in the detective, the intensity behind his gaze dimming somewhat, turning less controlling, less dominating…more seductive. And he smiled lazily, closing his eyes half-way and pulling Sherlock into a more gentle form of a kiss. And those long poet's fingers came up to rest behind Jim's head once more, entwining themselves in his soft hair. Those same confused feelings continued to well up even stronger from within the detective, though, as he fought to remain in control. The same questions returned over and over in circular thought patterns. What is this? _Why_ is this forbidden? Yet there were no answers to be had except those passing between the lips of the world's only consulting criminal. And even those simple truths were trapped between their shared breaths; sealed, as it were, with a kiss.

He brought his arm up and out from behind Jim's head, and was about to reposition it elsewhere, when something caught his eye. JOHN. And his head felt as though ice water had been dumped over it, frozen shock racing along his nerves. All of his current emotions were quenched from him suddenly, and he went still in Jim's arms, who looked back at him questioningly. Sherlock rolled over and away, pulling the sheet more securely around himself as he did. He ran a hand through his hair, seeking desperately for why that had just happened; finding nothing…yet again. He sat up and then stood, almost stumbling as he sought out his bed. His eyes found Jim's once, and they were full of confusion and many many other emotions that he couldn't deal with right then, couldn't sort. The detective lay down on the bed, almost falling across it really, and turned over, saying only, "Goodnight, Jim."

The consulting criminal, still on the floor, stared in a shocked disbelief that was rapidly becoming anger. He stood, suddenly, hands clenching. The need for violence thrummed through his being. No one _ever_ did this to James Moriarty! _No one_. Not anymore. When they tried, they…disappeared. He crossed to the nightstand and hefted the gun in his hand, turning its end over towards the detective's head. Sherlock….could disappear. He quickly checked to be sure the next pull on the trigger would end with a bang. And then he rested its barrel against the other man's temple. Sherlock gave no reaction to indicate awareness of current events, just lying there as if already dead. Jim's mind screamed at him to not take the rejection, to not allow such disobedience. His body was full of a different kind of fire now, as he stood glaring down at his peaceful nemesis. The need for blood was heady and powerful, a different, darker kind of addiction. But the screaming subsided a bit as the more philosophical part of his brain fought to the fore. His head tilted left, as if curious to see what his intemperate mind would do now. And new thoughts presented themselves as he did.

He had often wondered why he and Sherlock shared such an instantly intense, indivisible, and unbreakable mental attraction to each other. But as he continued to look down upon the man before him, he slowly felt an understanding take shape. And it both worried, angered, and excited him. For what were love and hate but opposite ends of the same emotion, the same spectrum? One so easily gravitated into the other, as evidenced by his actions this very night. So which was it? Love…..hate…..love…..hate…..love…..hate…..? It seemed to repeat with each beat of his heart, resonating within him. He shook his head clear, and let the gun fall back to his side. A problem with a solution for another night then…..and, perhaps…the solution to his _final_ problem? The one he had sought for so long…. _Another night_.

With not much else to do, Jim stared at Sherlock's back for a long time. He glanced at his groin, grimacing at the still-hard proof of at least some level of attraction between them. _Have to do something about that_. Then his hand became more fully conscious of the cold metal it held, and his thoughts drifted to the other door man from earlier. He hadn't reacted as Jim would prefer his men to. He was just…too scared. Too slow. Not enough balls to even _act_ like he wasn't terrified. And that was a potential breach as far as Jim was concerned when it came to lower classed minds than his. He glanced at the form on the bed. And Sherlock's. He sighed, thinking of the next day. Now, after the next few minutes, he'd have to find _two_ replacements. He shrugged, _Oh well_, stepping around the insanity within the maze of the sheet fort. He clicked the light off as he went, leaving the detective in darkness once more…..just a different kind this time around.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Hope y'all are enjoying! Revella has been a huge conspirator with this fic, so you have her to thank for the regular postings, as she keeps me moving forward with her shared excitement. Enjoy!

Today was the day. Jim sprang from his bed, as empty as he wanted his heart to seem. He walked to the window, throwing it open so that the sun burst into the room and flowed over his pale skin. _So like __**his**_….words unbidden from his mind as he remembered last night. Then reality intruded on his daydreams. Sherlock Holmes was _not_ his yet, and nothing had actually happened. But that would be rectified…soon. He looked out over the grass beyond his window. The mansion and holdings were vast and isolated. The property of an elderly heiress to a wealthy family whose fortune had been made in the Americas but sent home to England. There wasn't much family left to inform of her passing (that hadn't been opportunely taken care of, anyway), except for an estranged nephew conveniently located at the last minute: Mr. Richard Brooks. He smiled at his play on words as he scanned the perfectly manicured lawn. It truly was a beautiful home, and in just the perfect location to place them out of mainstream society's roving eye. He continued smiling as he contemplated the day's events to come.

They would be going shopping. Car shopping. Well, they would at least _look_ like they were anyway. He needed to begin testing Sherlock's moral fiber, though he suspected that without John's grounding influence, it would be closer to his own. And so they would shop, test drive, and…..not come back. He laughed a little. It was perfect. He would be the one driving and stealing, true, but Sherlock would know beforehand what they were doing, so that he could still be considered a participant in the event. And it would also be the first time he would allow Sherlock out of the direct watchful eyes of his men. It would be just him, and Jim; any backup support that Jim had access to would be a goodly distance away; so if the detective tried escaping, he _would_ be caught. But Jim would know then that his techniques weren't fully effective. A test, of sorts, if one wished to put definitions on such things. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that it wouldn't come to that. And _that_…that, was worth any minor inconveniences in between. He stretched up towards the ceiling, basking in the warm light. Sherlock was his; he just didn't know it yet.

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Pale eyes opened to the sound of an orchestra, light and faint, drifting through the doorway. Vision centered, then focused on the ceiling above him; he placed the sound. Dvorak: Concerto for Cello. _And __**I'm**__ the odd one, then?_ he snorted. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with the music in general; it just seemed a strange choice for an early morning song to be running over the intercom system. He moved to raise his arm above the duvet and froze at the feeling of fabric against his skin. He distinctly remembered falling asleep in his sheet…and _only_ his sheet..…what was this? In one quick, violent motion, he yanked the coverlets and sheet from his body and gazed downward….to find himself fully clothed, except for a suit jacket. He did an internal scan of his garments by feel. Trousers: check. Undershirt: check. Dress shirt: check. Socks: check. Shoes: check. Underpants (what the _bloody_ hell?!): check.

But he didn't rise to the bait. _He wants me to become unhinged, unbalanced; and thinks by doing little things like this, he will chip away at me slowly_. So he simply sat up and threw his legs over the side, looking toward the wardrobe with an idea forming. _Yes, perfect_, he thought as he pushed off from the bed and over to the clothes waiting within that construction. However, his ideas of changing from the suit Jim had obviously preferred dimmed considerably when he saw the contents. There before him, in orderly fashion, hung perhaps 15 replicas of the very suit he was already wearing, just each in a shade slightly different than the one preceding it. He growled softly at the cleverness of this ploy. And he turned from the double doors, leaving them hanging ajar. His eyes roamed aimlessly as his mind sought solutions in the remainder of the room. They skid to a stop as they slid over the knife at the bedside, a smile finally making its way across the carefully blank countenance he usually put forth. He wondered absently if they were still recording his room. _I'll know in a minute…..._

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Jim sat at the far end of the sturdy, oaken breakfast table awaiting his 'guest' before dining himself. His eyes were glued to the doorway through which Sherlock would be coming any minute. He smiled inwardly at having had his people dress the detective, knowing the other man would find it unappealing (at the _least_). And he chortled a bit at the thought of the look on his face. But then his eyes flew wide as Sherlock rounded the corner, walked quickly to a seat about five feet from Jim, and plonked down casually. The sheet had made another appearance, it seemed. It was draped over himself much as it had been last night, and one edge slid off of the detective's thigh as he settled back, leaving no doubt as to his returned state of nudity beneath.

Seeing as how this was Sherlock Holmes, Jim's surprise lasted for no more than a few seconds before his eyes narrowed and he asked lightly, "So…..sleep alright?" He toyed with a fork in front of him, mirroring the detective's nonchalant manner. Allowing the other man to think he'd gotten one up on Jim was never an option. The wild haired man before him merely nodded in confirmation of his sleep quality, and he shifted a bit, causing the sheet to reveal ever more skin beneath, this time at the shoulder. This unconsciously drew Jim's gaze until he realized the ploy for what it was. The oldest trick in the book, but one normally plied by those of the opposite sex. He immediately recast his gaze to focus on his fingers, which splayed before him on the table top, before speaking.

"We'll be going out today, Sherlock, to a place where we'll need appearances very much _intact_." Jim ran his eyes loudly over the enveloped large child seated at the table with him. Still no verbal response from the other man, but there _was_ an almost inaudible grunt of half-acknowledgement. Jim's eyes narrowed, and his voice lost its cheer, leaving only deadpan, "You need to change." The detective merely shrugged, causing the sheet to slip even further from the shoulder, revealing the clavicle beneath it. Though his stare did not waver, Jim knew it was obvious to both that he was quite aware of that move. However, seeing that the game he played would lead no farther, Sherlock finally chose to respond, chin held high in childish petulance.

"Can't."

"Why not?" was preceded Jim's sigh.

"Nothing to wear."

…..? "What are you on about? Just put the suit back on."

" 'S gone."

"Gone?"

"Yyyep."

"Well, then there's _others_ in the _closet_," a bit more perturbed now.

"Gone, too," Sherlock retorted, examining the ceiling above now as if he hadn't a care in the world that he was basically naked and held prisoner by the greatest criminal mastermind of their time. And an insane one at that.

Moriarty stared Sherlock down, wondering at the man's responses when the detective suddenly reached under his sheet and pulled forth the suit he had woken in. He plopped it on the table, across a dish of fruit, where Jim could clearly see the shred patterns the knife had created throughout the garment. It looked as if a mad badger had attempted eating it, and afterward just gave up and shat on it instead. Jim ran a finger along the fabric and pinched one of the new 'tassels' between his fingers, face almost disbelieving as he glanced back up at the sheeted man. Sherlock's gaze never left his as he said slowly, and with a deeply serious tone, "I'm sorry," his eyes sparkled, "There were no survivors." And silence hung thick as Jim mouthed the words 'no survivors,' leaning back into his chair and placing a hand lightly over his mouth…..before beginning a slow smirk underneath…..that beget a full throated laugh. Was this what Dr. Watson dealt with on a daily basis?

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Unfortunately for Sherlock, a tailor was actually part of the staff, James being as conscientious of appearances as he was. And within a short couple of hours, the detective stood before a mirror in a recently altered Armani (the only grudging compromise he could wring out). And damned if he didn't feel at least a _little_ bit more himself now. _Might still shred it, though. Tell him I wanted to see which brand was the most durable of the two._ He gave an almost invisible half-smile at the thought.

Once dressed, Jim presented himself to Sherlock in all his posh glory, having chosen an autumn brown suit that gave his eyes a certain accentuation. The way the other man moved through a room was with total confidence in his own abilities and power. It was captivating to watch him order his underlings around. Men who hadn't a tenth of Moriarty's intelligence, chosen for their skills and dedication more so than anything else. They feared James, that was obvious to any who observed their interactions. But though they may be afraid of their leader, if anyone dared threaten that self-same man, they would turn on the person in question like rabid dogs. As Jim finished speaking with a man who bustled off to bring a car around, he spun to face Sherlock, eyes almost amber in their eagerness for the day to move on. If it wasn't for the obvious insanity that swam so near the surface of those eyes, Sherlock could almost be fooled into believing the man before him was an honest one. Almost. But no; he wasn't.

Much to the detective's surprise, Jim reached into a closet and brought forth the Belstaff, which he spun on display before playing the part of a gentleman helping a coat on. Sherlock sneered at the image but accepted the long coat nonetheless. It felt secure, grounding, to have it around him, though he couldn't place why. He felt more himself with _it_ on than like some dress-up puppet of Moriarty's. Jim noticed the change in him, too, it seemed, because his smile actually turned genuine, reaching his eyes for once and blocking the evil within. _Curious_… They left shortly after in a long, dark car, with long, dark windows. At which Sherlock had muttered, "Cliché," as they climbed inside. Every amenity one could ask for on a prolonged drive greeted him upon his entrance. A fully stocked mini-bar, TV, and snack tray. Soft leather interior with small travel pillows. Jim merely smiled as the detective stared at objects he found ridiculous to have in an automobile.

Once settled, the car pulled off from the main building. Then Jim and Sherlock stared at each other. Hard. Each assessing how to best handle this new situation, environment, in which they found themselves together. The consulting criminal was the first to break the silence, throwing his arms wide and kicking a leg up over his bench seat in a show of complete nonthreatening relaxation. Sherlock tilted his head as if studying the body language and leaned back somewhat himself as the other man spoke.

"So, you'll want to know where we're going," he stated. The detective grinned, watching as the lawn passed them by quickly. He turned his head as if he were merely going to pass the time with his observations. Silence continued to hang until just before they turned onto the main road to travel back towards London. Back to his 'friends,' his family. Mycroft. Sherlock's eyes darted over to Jim, who had a knowing smirk. The look put Sherlock off initially, as it gave him the impression that Jim knew what he was going to say. And just as he opened his mouth, the criminal cut him off…

"Yes, I know what you're thinking. But Sherlock, surely you know better?" The detective glared back at him, and Jim only smiled wider, saying, "You're thinking about the coat, your Belstaff, the tracking device Mycroft has in its hemming. Yes, it is still functional and will begin to signal in another few miles." Again, Sherlock stared at Jim, but this time with a touch of curiosity. "Yes, I left it alone…..but I also made others." Jim turned his head to gaze out at the passing countryside, "Fourteen others." He laughed a little and turned back to the man across from him. "Now, shall I tell you about the car we're going steal? It will be so fun, Sherlock!" The man looked just as a child on Christmas morning. But then, he adopted a thoughtful posture momentarily, "I haven't stolen a car, in person, since I was…oh….twelve." The idea seemed to cause some small amount of giddiness as Jim laughed harder and said, "Ah, but now it will be so much more fun with an accomplice."

Sherlock feigned indifference, though he could recall various experiments in the past which would have resulted in better data had he been able to steal various things, including cars. So the idea itself was appealing to him. Not as a criminal past time, mind, but as applied to certain theories and postulations he had made in the past about such things. But something had stopped him. What was it? Mycroft used to, but then for the last two or three years, he couldn't seem to remember his brother ever having had to step in. Why not? He cleared his mind and gave a short, "Mundane," before settling back down to enter his mind palace and evaluate this odd turn in his life. Moriarty rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile, texting away as his own arch nemesis reclined dramatically across from him, his smirk never leaving.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mycroft's heart jumped as his computer's alert began. A few seconds later, the same notification was blaring on his cell phone. He looked at both screens, disbelieving. Sherlock. _Sherlock….._ After almost two weeks, finally a ping on the tracker in the man's coat. He had hoped against hope that it would be overlooked by someone, anyone, in Moriarty's employ. And just maybe it had. Yes! He began to issue frantic orders to those around him, and called DI Lestrade on the visual communicator. The worn and weary looking DI came onscreen within 30 seconds, seeming as if he must have run headlong from his office to get to the Yard's Board Room.

"Yeah, what is it?" His anxiety clear through his tone.

"Sherlock. The tracker. I'm sending the feed and the access. Pull it up on your side. We need everyone. _Now_!"

Greg nodded, not one to question. He was more a man of action. He called his team around, briefly outlining what was beginning. And they all turned as the larger projector brought the picture to their eyes. A digital map of London and the area immediately surrounding it appeared before them. And there, moving across one side of the map, was a small red blip. Sherlock Holmes. Finally. A collective, yet silent, peal of excitement rippled through those witnessing it. A communal feeling of resolve gathered within everyone present. They may not all agree with, or particularly care for, the detective's manner or methods, but they couldn't argue how much prestige their department had gained through his observations and assistance through the years. They owed him, at the very least. He was one of theirs. And then everyone was moving quickly back to their respective stations with renewed urgency and vigor. Mycroft could be heard through the speaker of Greg's earpiece.

"I am sending a team by air now."

"I'll cover ground, then, mate."

"Good. Good. Now, if we can…"

"_Boss_!" Mycroft was interrupted by one of Greg's officers yelling across at him. The man had remained staring at the screen, but now was focused on a different point. And Greg's heart dropped as he followed the gaze. Simultaneously, he heard the elder Holmes curse, vehemently. For there, on the screen, as he slowly approached it, was another red blip. And then another. The thrill of a minute before turned to jagged ice as more and more red dots began to incur on the map of London. He whispered into the now chilled atmosphere as he watched.

"Mycroft."

"Yes?" came a distinctly off key answer.

"Are any of these even the real Sherlock?"

The line went dead.

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Jim giggled as he held his phone to his ear, and the detective cracked an eye to locate the source of his amusement. This prompted an exaggerated finger-over-the-lips 'shhh' gesture from the consulting criminal. He seemed to be calling someone important. Maybe. And then he began to speak slowly, teasingly.

"Hello. Did you miss us? How do you like my little game of Marco Polo? No no. Don't speak. _Just. Find. Us_." And he hung up, looking triumphantly over at the reclined detective, who returned his look blankly. Jim spoke again, "Your friends at the Yard, and Mycroft, too, I would imagine, just had their communications cut for about twenty seconds so I could let them in on the little game I'm playing." The detective rolled over, facing into the seat, choosing to ignore the dig. "What they initially thought was your tracker returning their homing calls was just the first of the other fourteen copied trackers that I have entering the city at various points." He laughed again, this time at the other man's back. "Yours is still there, too. But it's mixed with the others. And they don't have the manpower to seek out all fifteen. So this outing will be doubly fun, don't you think?" In answer, Sherlock merely pulled his Belstaff tighter around himself as they traveled ever closer to his friends, who would never know if he had really been there or not. While to himself, he thought, _Just. Find. Us. _


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: OMG. First, let me just thank Revella once more for her adamant support of my pitiful Sheriarty efforts on this portion of my fic. Second, folks may want to just go look at this Bugatti Veyron World Record Edition prior to reading the chapter so they have an idea of what's going on. The link provided below is of course typed out in such a fashion so this site will allow it to post. Anywhere you see the word "dot" or "slash" you should of course replace with a "." Or "/" if you wanna see this monster car Sherlock and Jim are after: **

**www dot Bugatti dot com slash en slash super-sport slash 360 slash world-record-edition dot html**

**Also, for those not great at conversions, 415 kph is equal to about 260 mph.**

They arrived a good twenty minutes later, Sherlock still annoyingly "absent," and Moriarty brooding on how to get the other man to play his game. They pulled into the dealer's lot, bypassing the older models on display outside. For what Jim proposed, they would be thieving the vehicles that were kept indoors. Always. The driver was well aware of his role already, and continued maneuvering past the point where the, shall we say, less affluent would have known to stop. But not Richard Brooks, newly inherited bachelor of the late widow Chervase's fortune. No, he could spit on one of the various models, and the show personnel would simply keep smiling, perhaps even pointing out a more interesting place for such oral ejaculate.

Sherlock had made a change in position that caught Jim's eye. The other man had pulled himself quickly into an upright posture, gaze roving all around them through the tinted visual provided by the windows, categorizing, analyzing, seeking…and then he faced Jim as he realized he was being watched, rolled his eyes, and feigned indifference once more. He straightened his coat and prepared to lie back down, but then something caught and held the detective's awareness before he completed the action; and that subtle interest was noted and thoroughly enjoyed by the consulting criminal. He had been anticipating it. And as the dealer's emblem came into view, Sherlock's breathing altered only slightly, subtly…but enough so that Jim knew he had piqued the man's finicky curiosity. The emblem rolled on by them as they entered the posh garage at the far end of the premises: Bugatti.

A well-dressed man in his mid to late forties greeted them as though they were the royal ambassadors of some wealthy nation, his fawning at the door of their vehicle sickening. Moriarty himself was used to the kind of nonsense enough that he didn't even register it as he stepped from the vehicle. But Jim noticed that Sherlock had made no move to exit with him. For this to be a successful trial, he needed at least a minimum of participation from his guest (prisoner). Direct menace was immediately discarded as an option. And threatening those 'friends' still within the registry of the detective's memory would do nothing but reset the walls that Jim was so carefully dissolving the foundations of. Perhaps a different sort of threatened violence? He smiled disarmingly back in at the detective before saying something low enough for the salesman not to hear.

"You know, Sherlock, I had planned this to be a fairly simple act. _Nonviolent_ even." He fingered his lapel as he spoke without looking directly at the other man. "I may have to make it a bit more interesting _without_ your involvement, though. I do get _bored_ soooooo easily." Another wicked grin, and with that, Jim was away from the car and headed toward a lineup of some of the world's most expensive automobiles. The detective remained behind in the darkness of their ride, thinking as he watched the carefully coiled violence of James Moriarty trail behind the oblivious salesman. No indication of awareness crossed his features for long minutes as he did this, observing. He didn't care one way or the other about stealing the car. Truthfully, he just hadn't wanted Jim to feel he held all of the advantage; that _he_, in effect, controlled Sherlock. Not allowed. So now, how could he participate, possibly saving the lives of the sales staff, and yet remain apart as though not following where James led him? He mulled the problem over and over, seeking and probing. And as he continued passively observing the smooth and polished act of rich, snobbish pride that rolled so easily from the consulting criminal's shoulders, an idea passed him by. A good one. A fun one. An _interesting_ one. And so he paused. And snagged it. And smiled…

"No, I don't think you _understand_; I don't like the way _that_ one looks with my suit today," Jim said in a flatly disinterested, yet still somewhat petulant, tone, not even really looking at the vehicle in question. The salesman fretted about him like a tiny bird, nervously trying to decipher what the odd snob before him would find appealing. He had gotten Mr. Brooks' credentials earlier that morning by fax, and so was well aware of the kind of affluence before him. There was no barrier to _this_ one financially. He could have any of the available products on the line. Several even, if he so chose. But the three models he had just introduced had been met by the same bored, lackluster response. Perhaps more of a sporty type? He told Mr. Brooks to please be patient with him, and he would bring around a model that was _sure_ to agree with his meticulous tastes. This suggestion was met by a noise that was barely able to be translated as an agreement as the pompous ass merely toyed with his mobile. Apparently, eye contact wasn't merited for those of the lowly sales staff. Taking his cue, he hurried off to get the aforementioned car.

Moriarty looked up as the fourth car was pulled away from the pack of other vehicles. Ah, _that_ would be it then. Yes. Nice. _Very_. He studied appreciatively the sleek angles and lines of the pure machined artwork approaching him and slowing to a stop. And then a sound that many would call girlish (not to his face) erupted from him as a pair of long arms suddenly encircled his waist and drew him back against a body taller than his own. His phone, nearly dislodged, was caught, saved by his barely clinging fingers; and he felt a warm breath stir the hairs at the base of his neck. His heart jumped a bit, and he felt a rush of what seemed to be both fire and ice shoot through his veins as a baritone smooth as milk flowed out and over his skin.

"Lonely back there without you, James. Have you found me a present yet?" Sherlock said clearly as the salesman got out of the car next to them. Such was the change in the detective's voice and manner that Jim actually spun in surprise to stare back at him. The open faced, smiling angel there before him was _not_ Sherlock Holmes. Oh my, God, it was _not_. This…this, was something else. A new facet of his enemy's character. A sociopath's mimicry of expected behavior. It both worried and excited Jim that he hadn't been witness to this aspect of Sherlock until now. _After all, know thine enemy…_he told himself_._ But he wasn't able to speak a word aloud before the detective practically slithered around him, hands becoming possessive and playful around his hips as he _gushed_ over the car. "Ooohh, what _is_ it, dearest? It's _very_ pretty!" The detective strolled around it, running long fingers lightly, worshipfully, over its frame. And Jim almost laughed, _laughed_, aloud at the theatrics of it all. Sherlock came back to him and grasped his hand tightly. He pulled Jim closer to the deep, silver-gray carbon fiber automobile with orange accents.

Jim barely noticed as the salesman finally replied to the detective's question, still bemused at the handholding and acting. "It's the latest Bugatti Veyron; a 16.4 Super Sport World Record Edition, sir! At 1200 horsepower, it tops out at 415 kilometers per hour. But that's mostly just a safety feature for the tires because speeds higher than that aren't healthy for them, you know! It's a beautiful machine, and very fitting to you and your….um…your…?" Sherlock glanced at James, so easily playing the besotted lover, and replied while looking into Jim's brown eyes.

"Fiancé."

"Oh, congratulations then, sirs!"

"Why thank you. We're just newly into it really," and Sherlock winked at the salesman, "And he's already out trying to woo me again with things like these. _Presents_." He gestured at the purring vehicle before them. "He does spoil me so." The salesman grinned, looking for all the world as if the two men before him were the center of his universe. _What do they pay these people for the rental of their souls?_ wondered the detective absently as he continued his act. Then the man stepped aside for the couple and opened the door.

"Test run, gentlemen?"

Sherlock spun, clasping his hands together as if giddy with delight, "Oh, _can_ we, James? Can we?" And Jim, struggling to remain in his cool and snobbish façade, nodded the affirmative. Sherlock leaped into the passenger seat, immediately reaching over and retracting the roof, creating an instant convertible. He continued chattering on, as if oblivious to the other two men there.

"Oh, yes, James. This is perfect! You see here? The coloring of the upholstery will blend with your dandruff problem so as to be almost unnoticeable in between detailings." Jim frowned in confusion as the other man continued. "And these _seats_…they're _perfect_ for your chronic hemorrhoids!" Jim's stare went wide…..then got harder as the other man barged along. "Oh! And see? The leather seating is _also_ an excellent choice because it doesn't hold _odors_ within as easily as fabric does. So your excessive flatulence won't be such an issue." The detective leaned over as if speaking solely to the salesman, with a hand up alongside his mouth for the perception of privacy, "You could never _imagine_ what we went through with the _last_ car and its _plush_ seating." He gave a dramatic shiver. "It was something else. But you know…" He glanced at Jim, who now stared stone-faced back at him, "They say love is blind…and apparently anosmic as well!" He gave a laugh and then a 'come on' gesture of impatience to the consulting criminal, who stalked quickly to the driver's side and sat down stiffly. Sherlock gave a lascivious wink to the salesman before running his hand along Jim's inner thigh and saying, "Come now, James. Don't be _shy_. Show me how well you ride..…I mean _drive_."

James Moriarty's left eyelid gave a barely visible twitch; barely visible to anyone but Sherlock, who knew he'd won this round as the car's perfect engine roared to action with a violent downshift, and they swung about swiftly, heading for the gate. The tires gripped the pavement as though in love with it, propelling them ever faster to their getaway. The salesman was about to protest when Jim's driver came from behind him, placing a rag over his mouth. The man was quickly unconscious, and soon then the driver, too, was speeding after his boss, weaving around the lines of other automobiles on the lot. Staff from other sections saw the speeding vehicles, and it would only be a matter of minutes before they made the connections and began calling the police. But that, _that_, was part of the game, too!

Twenty minutes in to the run and they were back onto the country roads. This time on the opposite side of the city from where the mansion was located. For the most part, the lanes were long and winding, at times curvy. James took them all as fast as kinetically possible, wind whipping their hair and clothing all around them with the top dropped back. Adrenaline made up for the usual human reflexes, allowing snap judgments and taut muscles to perform above their normally assigned values. And unexpectedly, Jim was surprised to find himself smiling. He hadn't actually done much real thieving since his highly vertical rise to prominence in the criminal underworld. This was refreshing. It was nostalgic. He looked askance at the man beside him. It was fun!

He snapped out his phone and drew out a cord to connect it to the Bugatti's sound system. He flicked his thumb over several selections before settling whimsically on 'Happy' by Pharrell Williams. He laughed as the first notes erupted, and then Sherlock's head whipped toward the stereo system as the words spilled out, thinking he'd fallen into a twilight realm of craziness. And then Jim began to bounce with the music, waving his arms around in a parody of dancing, and mouthing the words…..making a grand ass of himself in the process. And now Sherlock was _sure_ of his slip into another dimension… But Jim didn't care. He dropped the clutch, downshifted, and punched it…hard. The tires spun for but a second before catching and jettisoning them further into the top of the vehicle's RPM range.

However, after the first run of the chorus, and much ass-making, Jim noticed that Sherlock had returned to his 'usual' state of disinterested flatness. The exuberant (and handsy) detective of the dealership had returned to the deeper hells of the taller man's mind. Real or fake, this current act was annoying as all hell, and Moriarty wanted to have _fun_. He slowed the car considerably, and then yanked the wheel sideways, mimicking a racing drift. And the car slid to a stop that had them both slung side to side a couple times. It wasn't until they had come to a complete stop that Jim realized just how fast his heart was racing. It really _had_ been a long time. Too long. He chuckled slightly and then looked across at the detective.

Silver-blue eyes met brown, the detective's returned stare carefully blank and neutral. Jim cocked his head to the side with a winning TV-commercial-smile, saying in sing-song mockery, "Funny. _You_ don't seem _happy_." If it was possible, the detective's eyes grew even more distant, and he turned to face away over the side of his door. Jim set the car in park and turned himself to face the recalcitrant and childishly peevish Holmes, studying his profile intently. Strategy… _Need to engage him somehow. I know he's enjoying this. Doesn't want me to know, though….what to make of that? Hmmm… Need to make this good for him. Fun. And he needs to associate the good feeling with __**me**__. Reset his memories. Alter his perspectives….. But first…start small, simple..…smile, Sherlock._

"What will it take to make you smile, Sherlock?" The sudden shift in focus made the detective reassess and shore up his boundaries, though he still wasn't sure as to _why_ he found it necessary to do this. It seemed instinctive around this man, though. He made as if brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder as he replied offhand, "Returning me to Baker Street would be a good start." This was greeted with a wholehearted sigh from the consulting criminal, who turned to the other man and threw an arm across the back of the passenger seat.

"Come now. We both know that that isn't _quite_ what you want anymore, Sherlock." And the detective merely shrugged in response, staying aloof. Not to be dismissed, Jim continued, this time reclining himself back into the seat and staring up at the slightly gray sky, "What can we do, right now, that you would like? Something of interest to that odd brain of yours. It can be anything, Sherlock." He turned his head so that his peripheral vision could just barely encompass the man beside him as he finished, speaking with perfect enunciation, "Anything."

The detective blinked, his eyes sliding sideways to the man at his side, seemingly engrossed in his own thoughts for the time being. His vision then returned to its central track as he said softly, "Run it off a cliff." Jim's head perked up and turned, "Eh?" Sherlock's mouth turned into a half-smile as he repeated himself, laying his hand lightly upon the dashboard and facing Jim now, "Run it…off a cliff." Those silver eyes sparkled across the short distance at Jim, and the criminal felt a thrill run through him. _Anything, Sherlock_. He asked the detective, carefully, "You want…to drive this car…off a cliff?"

"Or just blow it up. Whatever's easier." Jim felt warm all over as he saw just a tiny spark of his own brand of crazy reflected within the depths of the taller man's shining orbs; and he nodded as he put the car back into gear and selected another song from his playlist. Now this, _this_ would be _fun_.

_A short while, and one totaled Bugatti, later…._

Jim lay on the grass, panting up at the still gray sky. His sides ached, his ankle was sprained, and his left arm felt like lightning was coursing through it. He turned his head to the side, gaining a new bit of painful data as he did, and saw the outline of the detective pushing up from the ground. His eyes closed for a second from the painful, sweet bliss. The detective staggered a bit, arms flailing. His gaze turned towards the ledge where the car had gone over, then back to the ground. He looked down at his suit and coat, and then brushed at its front ineffectually. A sound was heard by both, but neither admitted to it. It may have been giggling. Jim groaned a bit (on accident surely) and the taller man began to limp over to him in response.

Jim's gaze returned to the sky as Sherlock came up beside him, staring down like some large stupid bird, dirt and twigs in his hair. He looked to be in a state of total disrepair, but better off than the consulting criminal for sure. And then he smiled, wide and genuine, down at Jim. And with no filters in place due to the pain he was in, Jim smiled, too; though his left shoulder intruded, making it a half-grimace at the end.

Sherlock noticed and quickly reasoned the cause of it. Jim took a sharp intake of breath as the detective reached down and gripped the arm in question as the sound of helicopter blades began to fill the air around them. The detective placed his foot between the supine man's clavicle and shoulder…..then yanked the arm violently sideways. A loud and wet _pop_ filled the air, followed almost immediately by a cry of painful surprise, as Sherlock let go of Jim's reset shoulder. He took his foot off of the other man and almost stumbled over, just barely catching himself. Jim calmed his breathing down somewhat, taking many shallow breaths, but feeling much improved now as the detective spoke, having to yell over the sound of the approaching helicopter.

"Nice trick I picked up. I've had it done to _me_ before several times by…by…someone….?" He looked confused when the memory wouldn't surface and continued slowly. "…..anyway, many times; so I'm familiar enough with the process." Jim nodded up at him and achingly began to haul himself up with his uninjured arm as the chopper came to hover about 15-20 feet off of the ground short distance from them. A ladder was rolled out of the side, and Sherlock watched it impassively, unmoving, as it fell to the ground. James took the initiative and tugged at the detective's sleeve in its direction, not wanting to have to yell to be heard; and both of them then limped over. By far, it was Sherlock in the better condition, so he threw an arm through a rung, stood on another, and pulled Jim beside him, hooking him close with strong arms as Jim held on to one rung and the detective before him. The pilot must think nothing of taking off with his boss's only assurance of safety being the arms of his sworn enemy because they began to lift from the ground shortly after becoming situated. And truthfully, Jim didn't think on it overly much either. Part of the thrill of living like he did was the risk, the lack of a safety net. And even so, he didn't feel the danger. Not now. Not with the (_his_) detective's arms wrapped so tightly about him.

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John tore the door of Lestrade's office almost off its hinge as he burst through it. He had obviously run up from the ground floor as soon as he had leaped out of a cab. Greg stood in a slow and nonthreatening manner, realizing the man before him was about at the end of his rope with stress and worry. The doctor spoke hurriedly, not waiting on polite conversation, "Where? Where are we looking at it? Where is it?" And the DI pointed at his screen, indicating the scene thereon. John swung quickly around the desk and fell into the DI's chair as Greg selected the security footage from the Bugatti dealership to start over again. He pointed for John.

"Here, you can change cameras to see different angles. And here, you can move forward or back in time."

John's heart pounded as he watched the scene unfold, and he heard Greg's shifted stance when Sherlock exited the same car that Moriarty had. His eyes drank in every detail about the detective. He seemed healthy, unharmed. He didn't look to be coerced at the moment. So…. Why were they there? What was Moriarty playing at here….? His thoughts trailed off and imploded, and he watched with growing confusion/shock/horror as Sherlock's arms slithered around the other man's waist. He changed camera angles and watched as the detective whispered something intimately into the other man's hair, looking like nothing more than a sly and coy fox. John didn't register the next minute or so of film as his brain needed additional time to focus on processing what he had just seen. Greg seemed to sense this, too, as he leaned over and paused the video.

"Before you ask…No, I don't have any idea what's going on here. I mean, I know what it _looks_ like. But, it's possible it's a ruse, right? Don't believe everything you see on TV and all that, yeah?" John turned to face him, eyes bleak with confusion. Then Lestrade clicked to restart the footage as John spoke up.

"I….I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what to think. About _any_ of it." He gestured at the screen. "At once, I'm just glad he's alive; but then I'm worried what could happen next." He sighed, the days of stressful living evident in even such a common expression. "There's no way I'll _ever_ believe that Sherlock was willing in this. I _know_ him, Greg. For real. I mean, it's _Sherlock_. He was _kidnapped_. Who knows what that cruel bastard is doing to him? Or what he's _threatened_ to do to him?" And the DI nodded in agreement, remaining silent so the doctor could vent. Then John noticed the date on the film, instantly hitting new depths of despair. "This is from _yesterday_?! _How_ are we this far behind him?!" And Greg explained the multiple decoys and the resultant wastes of time, finishing up shortly and trying his best not to further upset the doctor.

"I know. I _know_. But besides the decoys, he also had someone scramble the security codes at the dealership so we couldn't access the footage until today." Greg groaned in frustration, pacing back and forth a few times before speaking again, "Always _two_ steps ahead, dammit! And now, not just Moriarty; Sherlock's looking guilty as well." John began to stand at the implication he heard, but Greg pushed him back. "No. _No_, mate. Not me. _Never_ me. But…..you know what Anderson and Sally saw on that tape? They saw the proof they've always wanted. Was like a fuckin' holiday to _them_!" He swiped his silver-shot hair back with a frustrated hand, "And they've already run it before my boss." John sputtered at that, but Greg staved him off once more. "Don't worry! Don't worry. At least, not this time. I've cooled the situation quite a bit already. But it still doesn't change what you see on that video." He and John both turned back to face the monitor, which Lestrade had stopped, frozen again on Sherlock holding Moriarty's hand.

"And then there's this," Greg said softly as if he had forgotten, and he pulled something from his pocket. John took it from his hand. Another Polaroid. This one showed the detective's profile, hair being wind-whipped about as he rode shotgun in the car beside Moriarty. His carefully blank expression was back in place, in stark contrast to the beaming stranger from the dealership; here, he was again cool and untouchable and….and….Sherlock. _What is this about_? It made no sense. The back of the photo just said, '_Do you miss me_?' His thoughts were interrupted by Greg.

"We found the car some miles away…..ran off a ledge….not much left. But no sign of those two. A couple locals said they either saw or heard a helicopter go by overhead, but that's nothing we can even track anyway." His eyes stared dismally at John, who found he wasn't ready for words again yet. Sherlock…his friend… He shut his eyes tightly and took a breath. This wasn't helping Sherlock. He opened his eyes once more, peering more clearly at Lestrade as a flash of inspiration came to him and he calmed.

"Well, we know two things from this." And the DI looked quizzically at him, though the doctor wasn't sure if it was from interest in his ideas or curiosity at his change in demeanor.

"Yeah, like what then?"

"We know Sherlock is alive. And…..what's the time of their arrival on that video?" The DI checked for him and replied.

"2:10pm"

"When and where did the first of the trackers appear?"

"They all appeared within 5 minutes of each other at about 1:30, and they all spontaneously erupted from edges of the city." And John smiled at Greg's answer.

"So, they are probably within about a 40 minute drive of central London. You can't go anywhere quickly through the city, even if you _are_ a master criminal, so that means that 25-30 minutes of the 40 minutes was spent traversing London. And that…that only leaves about 10-15 minutes of travel time _from_ London that they could be. Moriarty is nothing if not a show off, and so he'll want to remain close to observe our progress. Or lack of it. So our search area has been narrowed!"

Greg stared in disbelief at the doctor as he ran the theory around in his head. It made sense. Good sense. He clapped John on the shoulder and rushed out to inform his search crews of this development so they could focus on areas _outside_ of London, but only within a specified perimeter surrounding the city. John watched him go, some of the thrill fading as he turned back to look at the picture still clutched in his hand. Something was off. Sherlock seemed…different. Not in the sense that Greg and everyone else seemed to think, not because of the acting or whatever it was on the security footage. But…John _knew_ Sherlock. And in the video, and even in this picture….he just seemed….wrong. Altered. It was unsettling. He set the photo down on Greg's desk and stood to leave, his eyes still locked on his flatmate's profile. _Sherlock…what's he doing to you?_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mycroft sat alone in his home office late that same night. A snifter of brandy set untouched by his hand. The other hand set across his mouth and chin as he, too, watched the security footage over and over. Silence filled his empty home. His empty heart. _Not true_, he thought as he shifted a bit. _Something_ was there. He hadn't given sentiment over totally, he just buried things deeper than even _he_ could find access to. But now he felt the call of memory; and it unsettled him deeply at how ill he became at the things being considered while observing the heist. Lestrade was a good man, and quite a capable DI. But this was Moriarty….

_How strong __**is**__ my little brother?_ He stared back at the recording, which was paused now on a shot of Sherlock looking back over his shoulder at Moriarty as he glided around the chosen vehicle. Sherlock was good at many things, yes. And molding his surface emotions to fit expected norms was one of them. He was a supreme actor, of that there was no doubt. But as Mycroft shifted forward and back through the footage, he watched not the man's actions, but his eyes. Holmes eyes. '_And our eyes tell all; they always have_,' he heard his father's voice in his head. _'There is a choice to be made, Mycroft. And it comes to each Holmes once. Only once. You will know it when it reaches you. And there are but two choices: move forward, further into darkness, pursuing knowledge at any cost, for its own sake….or….remain in the light, removed from such perfection as one can only dream, but maintaining the safety of those around you as the reward.' _He closed his eyes at these remembered utterances, and another of their conversations befell him.

'_There is no going back for him now Mycroft. He has made his choice, and we all suffer for it. You must end it, before others are hurt.'_

'_I don't understand, father. How could he…? He's my brother….'_

'_No longer. You __**must**__ be the one to do it. I haven't the strength anymore…..and Sherlock's too young.'_

His eyes closed for a moment at the horror that had followed that discussion. His mind flitted back and forth, past to present. He recalled speaking with one of his MI6 superiors many years ago; back when he still _had_ superiors. They were testing him, grooming him for his current position. They had questioned his loyalty to the country, measuring it against his loyalty to his family…namely, his brother. A very troubled young man. He had considered his response carefully as they watched him like snakes in the grass. They knew _everything_ about him. No secrets, not even of the darkest kind. And so he had smiled a small smile after a few seconds of consideration, and replied flatly, '_Is there really a question here? You know what happened to the other one.'_ He had been reassigned to his current position several months later that same year.

He shook his head free of these things, refocusing on his father's words all those years ago. Choices. Mycroft had made _his_, long ago. He remembered it clearly, as his father had said he would. He had made his choice. _And so did he_…..he sighed. Then suddenly, he thought to himself, hard. _Sherlock. What about Sherlock?_ He thought fiercely over whether Sherlock had made his _own_ decision yet. He searched his memories fruitlessly for evidence of this, but came up with nothing to indicate either way. Once, he had thought he knew for sure. Now….. His eyes opened once more at the screen before him. Had Sherlock's choice already been made in the past? _Or_, he shivered as he paused the film at yet another point where Sherlock's eyes could be easily observed, _is he making it now?_


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** _A tribute to a dear friend and collaborator is captured within this chapter. Revella has graciously allowed me to utilize excerpts of her own fic, 'Forever Yours, Sherlock,' in order for me to have a bit of fun at the end of the chapter. Y'all really should check out her entire work for yourselves afterward. Soooo excellent! At any rate, I did have a bit of fun near the end of this chapter, in which I feel I am bordering on breaking out of character with James. I do apologize for this, as I generally try to stay as close to 'in-character' as possible. But I just couldn't resist paying homage to a fabulous fellow author and also getting in a good laugh with Jimlock in the mix. After that part, I will return to my previous manner of writing. As I said, it's not terribly OOC, but I believe it at least borders on it. Though, who can really say they know what James Moriarty would do at any given time? So maybe I'm not too far off base after all? We'll see…. Enjoy!_

_One week later…_

James Moriarty threw wide the doors of his mansion before the men guarding it could open it for him, bursting with energy on his arrival home. He had been away for almost a week on 'business' in France, and he was very much eager to return to his little home-grown experiment. France was wonderful in the late summer, but he had more interesting things going on at home right now than international smuggling rings. After throwing his coat randomly through the air, and it being caught by a scrambling henchman, he turned toward the guest wing, wanting his first stop to be Sherlock. He flicked on a light irritably as he went through a hallway. It was early evening, with barely any of the soft sunlight still breaching the windows. It took several minutes of wending through hallways to get there. _Have to move him closer_, he considered as he reached the doorway finally. He paused next to a man stationed on the wing of this large building, looking him over as though a piece of furniture. In reality, he was taking the time to compose himself as though this wasn't _really_ his first stop upon his return. No need in looking like a kid with a crush.

He concluded his death-ray stare and walked through the door…..and Sherlock wasn't there. The room looked as if it hadn't even been used…in a week. He stalked to the doorway and glared his question at the man in the hallway, who promptly paled at Jim's words.

"He's. Not. Here," Jim said through gritted teeth.

"He's been in the…in the study. Almost the whole week. Boss," the man piped out, sputtering under Jim's scrutiny.

"And he's eaten? You've made sure that he's eaten?" The man paled further, not wanting to incur the wrath of the coldhearted bastard, but unable to successfully lie to someone as perceptive as the man before him.

"I've…I've tried…. But he's…he… When I brought the food to him….he just….. I _did_, Boss. Bring him food, I mean. But he barely touched it, he…" Moriarty stopped listening. He remembered hearing Dr. Watson fretting several times over Sherlock's sparse feeding habits. The man truly _was_ a detriment to his own health. Experiments, cutting himself, anorexia…and all within the same package as that marvelous brain! So complex and dysfunctional! Much more interesting than _normal_ people. _But so much more fragile for all of it, _he mused. But he smiled soon after_. And I've broken him; and I will put him back together,_ he thought with an evil delight. Then he realized, _That idiot's still talking, isn't he?_ The man near him was rapidly spouting out the various trials he went through to attempt to trick the detective into eating something, anything, when suddenly Jim's dagger-filled scowl froze him against the wall. The criminal rolled his neck about and shook his shoulders as if sloughing off the stupidity of those around him; and he smiled coldly as he spoke.

"Weren't you going to do something just now?"

"Um…I don't…I…" the man stammered.

"Mmm, yes. I believe you were going to…Shut. Up."

"Yes! Yes, sir." Jim's eyes narrowed at the additional comment.

"So _do_ it. To the best of your _limited_ abilities." He turned to walk in the direction of the grand staircase that would take him to the floor with his study on it, calling out behind him as he went, "And be happy I left my gun in the car, as it has a much simpler way of silencing fools."

Sherlock had spent an unquantifiable amount of time within his Mind Palace searching for his missing link, the loose connection, the hole in his memories. Yet every time he neared enlightenment, he came up against a mental defense such as he had never been aware he possessed. Whatever had been blocked from him was of utmost secrecy and most likely potential harm. But like a child with a scab, he couldn't stop picking… _I need to know_, he thought. _What is real, and what is fictional? How can I make a deduction of this magnitude when I have not all the available data?_ It swirled before him, the answer, like a mist that shimmered in teasing jest. He could reach out…and it was gone. In its place, Mycroft or some other personified obstruction to his investigation would hover. _Moriarty is more unstable than I had originally thought him to be. I need to resolve this before it costs me something I am not even aware of. He….brings out something within me…something…new…different…dark._ He found himself not just a little attracted to the idea, though, and that bothered him deeply. _And he will make his move. Soon_. _He will not be put off forever. Thus far, he has tolerated my independence and rebellion against him, choosing to see it as amusing rather than for what it is meant to be._ His body on the couch shifted its shoulders around, with him completely unaware of having done so. _It will begin very soon, _he concluded_._ _And will I care? _He considered this turn of thought for a moment._ Does it matter? Really matter, what I choose?_

He wandered through his Mind Palace and into his flat at Baker Street, rendered as an exact copy of the way it was when he had last seen it. Everything, from knick-knacks to trash to furniture placement was flawlessly captured within this playback mode. He had caught this still-shot right before his kidnapping; even the dust motes hung in their respective places. He walked the perimeter of the living area and stopped at the mantelpiece, surveying everything, noting placement and alterations, arranging everything just so within his mental perspective. He whirled to his side. The skull! His eyes caught the anomaly, and he approached quickly, reaching out a hand to lay upon it. The skull was always replaced by himself at a very precise angle after every use, unfailingly. And it was shifted! Slightly, yes, but noticeably. He touched it, wondering. _Mrs. Hudson?_ he shook his head in the negative. _No, the depth of dust and previous patterns of polishing underneath it indicate that she hasn't dusted in here for at least a week; and I had noted its placement within this given timeframe as being normal since then_. Then he spun back to the room, scanning again, and considering a different option. _Someone else then?_

His eyes ceased their searching when he caught sight of the desk. There was an unfamiliar laptop open on it. What? He approached slowly, wondering if maybe Mycroft had dropped by at some point and left it for him to review case files from. But no, Mycroft wouldn't do that. Wouldn't leave protected government access wide open here on a table in a London flat.

The screen was facing away from him as he approached. It was an older model laptop, not great, but not bad. Many dings and scratches to the outer shell. One large dent on the corner gave him a funny feeling in his stomach. His head spun for a second as he thought he heard a voice yelling, "Sherlock, no!" and the image of his shoe stepping on the computer while trying to reach the ceiling blossomed in his mind…as did the subsequent toppling of the table and himself. He looked all around himself. _Who_ had yelled at him? He blinked, hard. No one there. And he could find no other source of his auditory hallucination. He refocused, and turned his attention back to the laptop. He ran his hand softly over the back of the screen and began to walk around to view what it was left open on. But as he came to the front, the small computer began to blur, and he felt a certain 'give' under his hand. His eyes locked in astonishment as it then melted away beneath his fingertips. He snatched back his hand. _What is this?!_ Mind reeling, he was unused to such inconsistency within the secret sanctity of his mind. Then he felt it…a hand at the back of his neck and shoulder, soft in its honest communication of friendship. It gave him a certain sense of déjà vu as it rested there on him. Hairs stood on end as he whirled to face its source….only to find…nothing.

He began to breathe faster, pulse rate picking up. Even a bit of nausea was settling in. This had never, _ever_, happened in the controlled environment of his Mind Palace, where _he_ was the master, the creator, the power that was. He felt dizzy, weak. He turned in a slow circle, the rest of the room now feeling 'off' to him, though he couldn't put his finger on quite why. Then, he felt a movement of air against his cheek, and he turned into it, facing a line of light given off by one of the lamps, dust motes sparkled in their halted paths. They shimmered, as if….no, wait…they _were_ moving! The air shifted again, as if time was beginning to pick up from where he was holding it still.

His eyes were frantic as they sought out the borders of the room. And there it was, the source of his vertigo. The walls were bowing inwards! This memory was losing its form, deleting itself. _No!_ He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth; willing it to stop, _forcing_ it to stop. And then…what _was_ that..…? He stilled as it happened again, faltering in his efforts, feeling almost as if something inside himself had shifted. There it was again! _Oh_! he exclaimed in recognition. He had just felt _it _push back! The memory was fighting him! _No!_ He struggled, battling harder, arms held out to his sides with clenched fists facing down and slowly lowering, as if pushing against something immense. His muscles strained against the nothing, eyes still closed and face set in a grimace as he fought his own mind for control of this memory. He felt a sort of tension twisting within himself as he did this, seeking weakness, seeking fear, seeking..seeking…

With one violent downward thrust, bending forward under the effort, he threw all he had into it, yelling out his defiance at being obstructed by his own intellect. All was quiet for the space of a breath as the dark and twisted tension left him just as suddenly as it had settled minutes before. Quiet, calm, he stood up straight…..and the windows burst outwards, shards of deadly rain flying outward into the 'night.' A rough wind whipped through the flat and past him, following the glass remains. He panted as he watched the room bend back sluggishly, the air slowing, vertigo lessening. The tension within was gone now as he slowly regained and rebuilt control of his own memories and projections. If this had been reality, he would be physically exhausted, such was the effort expended.

When the room resettled in its proper manner, dust finally swirling to return to its frozen state, he sighed in relief. Steadying himself with deep breaths, he began once more to observe. He could still yet feel an underlying tremor here and there within the memory itself, as if it were still waiting just below the surface…. And it terrified him. Had he really done this to himself? Or was this a result of what Jim had done to him? And what exactly _did_ the criminal do? Drugs. Shock therapy. Painful stimulus deterrents. Outright torture. But these were all things that Sherlock had willingly undergone on his own in the past, self-inflicted even, whether through experiments or otherwise. So how could it have wrought such profound changes over him without his full and willing participation? The most logical conclusion, therefore, was that _he_ had done this to himself. Or at the least, he had allowed it to happen. Right? But James Moriarty was sly, and oh..so..subtle…. And then his thoughts focused more fully on James. _Is this all part of your plan to sway my decision? Change my mind? To bring me into your fold? _He pondered what he felt toward the other man, curiously finding that he no longer felt animosity. He felt nothing at all really, other than a vague attraction that he couldn't properly explain._ You wouldn't have needed all this, _he concluded_. _He stopped his pondering for a moment to scan his surroundings one more fruitless time._ Would that anger you? Wasting all of this effort when it was unnecessary? _He smiled…..fondly_. Probably_.

Jim entered the study sometime shortly thereafter to find the detective stretched out along a lounging couch, for once impeccably dressed in the provided clothing rather than a sheet, or toilet paper, or…whatever else the infuriatingly odd man could wrap about himself. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped over his abdomen. He'd probably been this way most of the week, if his past actions were used to judge. Artistic, his body was. Though not in the traditional sense that today's pop culture deemed worthy. Pale, long of limb, and lithe, with angular features that gave the detective an almost alien caste at times…..exotic, to Jim's mind. The consulting criminal continued observing for a long moment, taking in the scene, maybe even…admiring…..until the deep, sarcastic, baritone split the air.

"Why don't you take a picture? Oh wait. You already _have_." The taller man's eyes remained closed, unaware of the delicate moment he had interrupted. Jim smirked at the intended slight but said nothing and began to circle behind the lounger, taking his time, finally stopping as he came to the side where the detective's head and shoulders were resting slightly elevated against the arm. He stared silently down at the creature below him. And on a whim, he swept his hand lightly over the dark mop of hair…testing, testing…. Not a flinch, not a flicker, nothing. _Retreated back within himself again? So quickly? Impressive_. He took a step forward and then sat on the arm of the couch as if on a saddle, looking all around and then up at the ceiling as if he weren't paying any attention at all to his actions; as if his thoughts were too deep to merit being aware of the reality around him. He even let out a short whistled tune as he waited for the detective's body to grow aware of, and used to, their new proximity.

After a few short minutes, he threw his arms out to the side and up, mimicking a long stretch toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes. Just minding his own business….nothing to see…. He then utilized his outside leg to push off the floor and slide himself down the arm and in between Sherlock and the lounger's back, landing flush between the other man and the furniture, both his arms still out wide. Jim cracked open one eye, and then the other, as his arms slowly lowered to settle with one on the arm of the couch and the other across its back; the detective effectively lying up against his side and chest. The reclined man's hair tickled his chin as it shifted under him, the beatific face turning upward to peer at him, one solitary silver eye cracked open to see what all the jostling and fuss was about. It searched his visage all over, and the eye shut once more, head settling back down to bring the curls and their tickling back to their original placement.

Jim took a contented breath and looked around his study for anything broken or missing, running his right hand down over his mouth and chin before laying it back down on the couch. He _had_ left a self-proclaimed bored sociopathic genius home alone for a week, after all. A more thorough inspection was probably warranted, but that could wait. In finding nothing immediately visibly askew, he pursed his lips and let the arm he had stretched along the couch's back slip ever, so, slowly, down, until it had slithered over the other man's chest, rising and falling in tandem with the rhythmic breaths. Hmmm… Now to wonder….was Sherlock _really_ even _aware_ of this? Or was he merely retreated within himself like that night a week before? He wanted to know, but how to do it without disturbing him? He had no idea, but he did know that he didn't want to be bothered to move just yet. It was so _comfortable_, this kind of closeness he had never shared with anyone else.

Fifteen minutes passed without change, and Jim was just about to either nod off or fall deeply into his own thought patterns, when he suddenly found himself squashed backwards by a ferociously stretching detective. Sherlock arched his back, pushing his feet against the other end of the couch and using his height to singularly crush Jim behind himself as he did so. Once satisfied with his 'stretch,' he let off for a moment, and Jim was about to speak when a flurry of motion ensued. The detective sat up along the couch, then propelled himself back and up with his legs, twisting around to face Jim as he landed on top of him, crushing legs, chest, and abdomen. The detective stared him eye to eye, tension building in the silence. Suddenly, he then launched himself over Jim's body. He climbed the shorter man as if an inanimate obstacle in order to get over the couch, bending Jim's spine backwards in new and awful ways until finally Sherlock was over. Jim sat still after Hurricane Sherlock had passed, aching all over now. _Guess there's my answer to the question of awareness_, Jim thought to himself.

Sherlock had walked wordlessly over to the window, gazing out at the twilit lawn. He stayed there, motionless, and Jim decided not to push anything just yet. _Better to check on a few things at home first, before beginning my 'experiment' again_. He pushed gingerly up from his seat, still feeling the 'oomph' that the detective had forced out of his diaphragm, and crossed to his laptop. This was the only thing off limits to the detective, and strangely enough, it looked as if he had actually abided by the ruling. _Odd_. He clicked through his messages, directing doom and gloom to the appropriate parties, before he began to have his mind wander a bit. He checked Sherlock's position. Still at the window. Weird. And then he brought up a site that he had come across a while back that often surprised and delighted him in its imagination. One of the few things that could get an actual true laugh out of him besides the consulting detective himself.

A few minutes later, Jim giggled a bit, eyes locked on the screen of the laptop before him. It was so uncharacteristically childish a sound to have ever originated from James Moriarty, feared mastermind of world terror organizations far and wide, that Sherlock's attention was immediately caught and held. His head snapped towards the other man, and he began to pace as he attempted deducing the cause from a distance. Another sound…_chuckling_? He ceased his restless pacing back and forth between the book lined walls and came to stand nearer to Jim, perpendicular, and not quite in view of the screen. He looked down curiously at the other man's face, the deep brown, almost hazel, eyes shining back in mirth at his scrutiny.

"What could possibly be this amusing to _you_?" came his acerbic probe. In answer of which, Jim's shoulders began to shudder with reigned in laughter. And he answered the detective shortly, barely gasping out breaths to speak in between, "Fans. Of. Yours." The younger man wrinkled his brow in confusion at the strange reply and queried back, "Fans?" And Jim nodded, just beginning to calm himself once more, saying quickly, "Yes. You know…those _people_ who….follow….what you do…." And he began to shake once more with the restrained mirth, waving a hand in the air to signal 'hold on.' He knew the detective would be floored and wanted to be ready to take in the whole scene, play-by-play.

Sherlock, annoyed, stepped and pivoted elegantly to face the screen, leaning down over Jim to see what was so bloody damned _funny_. His chest pressed against the criminal's back, one hand also on the shoulder opposite of the one he leant over. And the giggling stopped with the suddenness of the contact, a rapid flush spreading fiery arcs of heat straight through Jim's throat and chest. Not that the detective noticed. At all. His eyes were frozen to the screen and getting wider by the second as he read the words contained thereon. He read…and furiously…..

_John kissed Sherlock, forgetting where they were, why they were there. He forgot that it was freezing, and the only warmth the man he held. He forgot everything, everything but Sherlock… -_[long fingers gripped Jim's shoulder more firmly]-_ ….He thrust his hips against John, rubbing and grinding, making John pant with lust. -_[Sherlock leaned forward further, pushing Jim a bit into the desk as he did so]-_ There was a growling, stalking, hungering sensation rumbling in his core, a conflagration of love and lust, and John -_[head spinning, spinning…]-_…He snapped one cuff, _-[the grip tightened painfully]-_ then the other, over the younger man's wrists… "God, Sherlock. You are fucking amazing." _-[blue-silver irises nonvisible, pupils dilated]- _…..__"I've got you all alone, Sherlock. -_[breathing quickened]_\- You're mine. -_[pulse racing]-_Mine, do you hear me?"…_** -**[eyes wider, and mouth now hanging open]-_…_

Sherlock pushed back from the screen, staggering a bit in shock. He stared into nothing, overwhelmed. Sherlock Holmes, who beat dead bodies with a riding crop. Sherlock, who looked at the macabre as merely a fascinating bit of data to be filed. Who thought of dismembered body parts as appropriate kitchen stock. Who kept old acquaintances' skulls as home décor…. This very same Sherlock Holmes was _speechless_ at the words before him. And the look on his face had Jim lose every ounce of composure he had ever possessed in his life. It was a mortal blow…as far as humor goes. James Moriarty, world's only consulting criminal…laughed….._guffawed_ even, as the flabbergasted detective reeled from the descriptive acts he had just been party to reading….of himself! The taller man was almost incoherent as he first began to attempt a re-establishment of communication.

"There's…..not just….and there's….._why_….where it's….but then…who….could you try…I don't…I don't….I…don't….." He took a deep breath, reaching deep for strength, closing his eyes and centering himself as Jim laughed on. Quicksilver flashed open once again as he found himself.

"What…is…_that_?" he asked, needing to add no explanation as to what he referred. And Jim looked at him with eyes watery from such hysterical laughter as he had never experienced before.

"It's…why, it's _fiction_, Sherlock. About you. By those _fans_ of yours, who follow the work. Your work."

"Must they _lie_?" He stood rigid, rooted to the floor. "They _are_ lying…_correct_?! When did these supposed events occur? There's no time frame for…there's just no…" he demanded, carrying on and on, actually frightened now due to his constant awareness of his memory lapses of the 'before' time. And Jim saw through to this fear, acting quickly so as not to further irrationalize the already-barely-qualifying-as-partially-sane detective.

"No, no. Sherlock. It's alright." He tried not to laugh as he explained. "These are people who create adventures based on your personage. It's a kind of…homage…if you will. Though those who spend their time creating this must be of questionable use to the rest of society as a whole…" he trailed of, contemplative of just this thing.

"Well…I just…" Sherlock tried. A deep sigh, and he shook his head, continuing, "Clearly, the person who composed this was insane and bereft of all reason." The detective's mind was flashing around and around the words on the digital page. He walked slowly back up to where Jim sat half-turned in the rolling chair towards him, and he gazed at the letters, letting them run together unseen, lost in thought. Jim was almost at a return of giggling, watching the detective's continued antics as he began to speak again in response.

"I won't argue that. There are very many strange people out there, Sherlock, present company included. But don't you think…"

"Who's John?" The question cut through the air like a silver bullet. And a glacial wave of icy fire burned through Jim to his core as these words spilled from the detective. _Shit_. He quickly spun back to the screen, slamming his hand down on the laptop, snapping it closed with finality. "No one," he answered. The detective quirked an eyebrow and frowned at the quick response.

"Really? Because it would seem from this person…" he closed his eyes a second, recalling the screenname of the author. "…_Revella's _writing…that I know the man _quite_ well. You would think I'd remember someone who would ever do _that_ to me." He peered suspiciously at the man seated before him, but Jim played it off easily, now that he was aware of the threat.

"Oh. No. That's just an OC, an original character. They do that. Create their own literary characters in order to indirectly interact with those they idolize. Simple really. You're quite popular apparently." And his gaze was so unwaveringly honest, that Sherlock unwound a bit at the reassurance, tilting his head as if testing the air for untruths. Finding none, he opened his mouth to ask more about this 'OC' when Jim leapt up.

"Ah, enough of this. How about a game, Sherlock?" He spun back to face the detective, "A puzzle." He grinned darkly as he added, "A….._problem_." Sherlock stared on, wondering if he should pick up his line of questioning again or just leave it be. He should probably continue, as it seemed obvious James was hiding something… But then the other man proposed something that made him forget all about the strange author's detailed version of highly questionable events…a _very_ detailed version (and highly illogical, surely)…. Jim's proposition shattered his concentration on that issue for now, though, as the other man spoke, "Let's play…..deductions…"


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Once again thanks to those who hold on for this ride. I know it's a lot of Sheriarty, but that's a lot of focus now. The fic has extended beyond what I had originally planned because all of these funny ideas keep popping into my head about situations I want Jim and Sherlock to encounter together because I want to explore the depth of their intense addiction to each other's presence. Also, thanks again to Revella, who keeps me sane enough to think my crap is post-worthy.**

_**Jim's proposition shattered his concentration on that issue for now, though, as the other man spoke, "Let's play…..deductions…" **_

Sherlock watched, intrigued, as James strolled over to the lounger and practically fell backwards into a seated position on it. He leaned forward toward the detective, elbows to knees and hands clasped under his chin while facing the taller man. And the criminal smiled, "What do you say, enemy mine? Match skills against me?" His voice lowered a bit as he finished, with a slight almost-sneer, "_Up_ for it, are you?"

The detective appraised the man before him, already beginning the evaluation and deduction of his person, which Jim promptly noticed. His brown hair shifted as he tilted his head with a light snarling lift of one side of his upper lip, as if an animal meeting a challenger, "A _yes_ then, is it? Be caaaaaaareful…." he lilted. "You could never hide anything from me, Sherlock." He stood, motioning for the detective come sit, "I'll make it easy for you. I'll go first, putting myself at the disadvantage." He approached and then guided the taller man by the shoulders and onto the couch, pushing him down abruptly and then leaning over to whisper in his ear, "Wouldn't be a very good host if I…took advantage…of my guest, now, would I?" And as he pulled back to stand fully, he thought he detected just the most minute of movements from the taller man….a tilt in his direction, perhaps? As if the other fought an urge to turn the brief moment of closeness into something even more…..hmmmm… _Most likely unconscious on his part…_

Sherlock stared up at Jim, distrust once again evident in his smooth countenance. However, interest was there as well, intrigued by such an opportunity as this. Moriarty knew exactly how to play the man. Like a child who knows his favorite toy is only a hand's span away, the dark haired man before Jim was full of coiled energy at the thought of this kind of contest of intellect. The detective's eyes narrowed as he asked, "Limits?" And Jim just raised an eyebrow as if to remind him of his earlier promise of _no_ limits while they were together. Sherlock nodded to himself as his mind began to rush information about the criminal forth to him. It flew before his eyes in blurs of light and color, until he found his face grabbed by the chin and pulled up. The images burst before him, and he found a pair of brown eyes replacing them. Annoyed brown eyes. The hand let go, and the detective sat back against the couch.

"My. Turn," Jim said with a dark finality as he began to stroll around, eyes never leaving the detective's form as he repeatedly changed position in the room. He spoke, hands clasped behind his back, eyes burning. He began deductions…

"Sherlock Holmes. World's _only_ consulting detective. Self-appointed. Self-titled." He sneered, "Self-_absorbed_." The detective remained impassive before him as he continued. "_Why_, though? Such intelligence surely belongs more in alignment with a career in science, or…government. So, what happened? Is it because you're a sociopath? A self-proclaimed one? Hmm. I think not. I think you may be along the lines of something similar, but not that. We both know there are _real_ emotions in you. Buried deep, but there." He paused as if examining his nails, "Seen a bit of them myself, haven't I?" he leered. "Perhaps you're more of a barely graded Asperger's? Mmm. Fits better, I think. Explains the intelligence…and the lack of emotive capabilities and connections. But even so, that doesn't answer the question of…_why_. Why detective work? What happened to force your hand into such a mundane, _humanitarian_, profession?"

Jim continued to pace the room, keeping eye contact as much as possible while he was reading the lines and angles of the man seated so near. Every breath and gesture observed was a Cliff's Note on the detective's past. The criminal's eyes narrowed in thought, _Past….yes, that's it. The past, and all its inconveniences….like relatives_…_blood_… "So, everything comes down to family. Doesn't it, Sherlock? No major genetic flaws evidenced, so it's _not_ Nature. But _Nurture_….there we are!" he cried out as if at a surprise party, throwing both arms in the air. "Born to a married couple who had already had one…no no…no _two_…boys prior to yourself." Moriarty's eyebrows lifted at this conclusion. "Hmmm. I know Mycroft….the other?" Sherlock's face revealed nothing. At least, it wouldn't have to anyone else. Jim shrugged as he looked him over. "No matter. He's dead anyway, isn't he? Your clear lack of response for him confirmed for me how this is a family secret. Let go over the years. Thought forgotten. So…he's dead. Hmmmmm. Yes. Dead. Of what? Nevermind; it's of little consequence. As I was saying, a married couple. Father…mmmm….somewhat overbearing, but not unusually so? Yes. Nothing there to be indicating a _rough_ relationship exactly. So where does this," he waved his hand circularly as if to encompass the detective's frame, "stem from? Not the _father_, sooooooo….."

Jim paused his diatribe, eyes widening slightly as he hit on it. "…the mother…." he breathed. Sherlock's form didn't flinch…not to normal eyes. Jim's eyes, though, saw everything…even _thought_, seemingly. His smile returned as he continued. "Mother dearest," he cooed. "So. Like. Your. Mother. Aren't you?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and came to stand right in front of Sherlock.

"Mmmmm…yes. Not….very nurturing, was she?" Sherlock shifted to lean back further into the couch, every motion catalogued and scribed within Jim's mind as he continued on. "Oh….yes. She was bad, but not in the usual sense of the word." He made a face of mock sympathy, "Not such a good mother when the cancer got hold of her, was she? Of the brain, was it? Causes all sorts of nasty side effects, such as removing your reasoning and emotional attachments. Not something a child is likely to have understood. She was highly intelligent, too, wasn't she? Before? And your father didn't know what to do with children while his wife was quickly becoming a stranger." Jim smiled cruelly. "Poor Sherlock. Left with no one but two other children to help you through the early time of your own socially stunted condition; and one them most certainly was affected the same way as well. Mycroft. Hmmm. How ever did you two make it through childhood and maintain enough social skills to function in the world? And the other….what of him, Sherlock?"

The detective stared coldly back at Moriarty, which only gave him further answers. The criminal grasped a theory as it grew within his imagination. "You and Mycroft weren't alone in your suffering were you? _He_ had it, too, didn't he? The other?" His voice lowered as his eyes traced every shred and particle of Sherlock's body language, the lines of his face, the cast of his eyes; he remembered the way he spoke in the mornings, his need to control every aspect of his own life, his near anorexic state of nutritional stability….and he nearly fell over with the logical conclusion that came to him in a rush. The _brother_. _Always_ the brother! And then he cooled somewhat quickly. _Isn't it, though_? he thought to himself darkly. He walked to Sherlock and knelt before him, reaching a hand out to trace a few faint lines at the corner of those pale lips; then he took the other man's arms, rolling sleeves up to track the almost-invisible scars that screamed of a history of addiction recently abandoned. They weren't what he hunted.

But there! There it was! In the midst of all the negligible, was the evidence he sought. He let go of the arms, and he grabbed the taller man's shirt, lifting it to also gaze at the pale abdomen, now taut with anticipated violence. And there again was the sought after information. If one didn't know to look, then it wasn't apparent. Light burns and healed shallow cuts. Only visible at certain angles in the light as being skin somewhat shinier than the rest. He dropped the fabric and stared up into the detective's eyes as he threw out his final deduction, "Torture. As a child. _By_ a child." He stood. "Your own brother, locked in his own cage of demons, his only way of coping to bring pain and hold control over the only other person weak enough for him to have the advantage over." He paused in consideration. "Mycroft is several years older than yourself. This one was older than he. The eldest Holmes. So it would have been easy for him to catch you. Control you." James paused again, whispering, "And he did, didn't he? _Control_ you?"

Jim noted that Sherlock's frame _might_ have developed a slight tremor, as if holding back something deep and dark within. Or, it could just be _himself_, reacting to Holmes' past. _So similar…_ He shook off that train off thought, picking up where he left off, "But he's dead. For many years, I think. So how…?" He had his fingers over his lips, thinking. "Oh! I see. _Mycroft_. Perfect." He came back to kneel again in front of the detective, who gazed as if into nothing at this point. "Perfect." He looked into those eyes, dark gray now, with secrets shifting amongst them. "Mother dies. Father becomes estranged. Brother tortures brother. And…..a brother kills a brother." And then he laughed, standing quickly. "That was fun." He threw himself loftily onto the other end of the couch, which bounced Sherlock out of his reverie. The detective started, looking around and then finding Jim there next to him. He blinked a few times and then looked innocently over at Jim, asking, "I'm sorry. What? I drifted off."

This was greeted by a tense look of anger crossed with violence, but only momentarily. Jim had to remember against whom he was playing. Sherlock was nothing if not an accomplished manipulator of others' emotions. And the other man spoke through his thoughts. "After such a lengthy discourse on what I can only assume was the beginning and ending of _time_, I thought I wouldn't still be expected to perform," Sherlock snarked, pushing up from the couch only to take up a spot closer to the criminal. "Mine shall not take _near_ as long," he said in criticism of Jim's lengthy break down. "There is less meaning to your life, I think." And James raised an eyebrow at the insult but kept silent, making a motion with his hand as if to allow the detective to continue. His past had been erased all those years ago, and his carefully cultivated mannerisms and identity were those of a different person now. Deliberately so. The detective would hit on _some_ (he _was_ brilliant after all, else this wouldn't be worth the effort). Jim was confident, however, that he would barely breach anything of import. It all might seem an exercise in futility, but, he _had_ gotten the other man to engage with him, hadn't he? He could barely keep his smile from spreading to the outside world.

Sherlock's entire demeanor changed in an instant; any kind of joking or kindness vanished in a blink. At once, he was the cold and rational entity that James had sought out originally. And the detective focused all his skills now against the man before him, making Jim unconsciously perform an inner-self squirm. No matter his surety and confidence at his own abilities, this _was_ Sherlock, after all. The only person he considered a match for himself. Maybe. On a sick day. Jim erased all memory of his own history from his mind for now, blanking it, letting his eyes go vacant and unrevealing, his affect flat. Never offer advantage. Give nothing away except that which you wish others to think. _Now, try me….._

The detective began, interrupting these thoughts of self-assurance, taking his time to explain his analysis instead of his usual rush, "Not a loved and cherished boy _here_. No. Hardly at all, really…. You were but an…accident." Hmmmm. Yes. A product of the rape of your mother…..by her later-to-be husband, your father. How…..chivalrous." Sherlock nodded to himself and proceeded. "And no other geniuses to _your_ family name... Just you. All alone, and oh, so, bright. A regular young scholar you could have been, if given the opportunity. Then it wouldn't have mattered that you were wearing little but tatty rags wrapped round your feet in place of shoes; your shirt a multitude of patched together potato sacks; your skin full of cuts and sores festering from lack of proper care; and your body reedy and frail from growing up on a diet of thin cabbage soup - all she could afford while your father was out drinking rather than working."

"Your intelligence could carry you where your lack of affluence couldn't. I imagine that made you _very_ popular where you grew up….. Oh yes. I know what you come from, James. It's written in everything you do, everything you try to cover up. Nails, overfiled from an obsession to promote your meterosexual image to the world. That, as well as your well-tailored suits, sparkling dentition, and sleek hairstyles worn only by rich prats who want those around them to know just how much they have; what they possess. Your eyebrows have been shaped to the same perfect purpose. No flaws. No weakness. Even the colors you choose to wear are often somber and foreboding because this is the image you wish others to take away with them. Because you would never want them to know what used to happen to you….. You often stand leaning slightly to the left, this being a result of some violent injury in childhood that prevented the femur from extending that last centimeter in the final growth phase. Yet you attempt to play it as a jaunty stance to further persuade those around you of how in control you are, how unbothered by the world and its problems because you have solved all of your own. You need to exude control. Of everything. That cultured accent of yours? Mmmm…" Sherlock sneered, "I can still hear the ghetto underneath it, no matter how hard you try. But _why_ hide it? Why so desperate to not be associated with your past?" Sherlock spoke aloud to himself for a moment, looking down with chin in hand, "You _hate_ those born to a perceived privilege…such as…_myself_… So why then make yourself into one of them? What does it hide you from…protect you from?" Jim's mask stayed in place, remarkably unmoving as the detective's piercing gaze burned through him. The criminal's body was rigid, carved of stone and ice. His eyes, though….. To Sherlock, they told a story as long and wretched as the River Styx itself.

The detective's eyes narrowed in his study of the man before him. "Our past defines us, marks us…but it doesn't _become_ us, _make_ us…if we don't allow it. But you seem inordinately afraid of this…" Sherlock saw Jim's miniscule flinch and decided to change tact as new data flowed to him from this deceitful motion. "I do not feel anything for _my_ past. It is…troublesome, but nothing in the end. It is there. That is all. Yet _you_…you _hide_ your past in every action. And I start to wonder…. Are you hiding _it_? Or are you hiding _from_ it? What have _you_ to fear? James Moriarty, self-made criminal mastermind; taker of everything he so desires. The only man I know more powerful than Mycroft. Fear? Bah! Everything you are now has been built upon foundations you yourself poured, what _you_ have created. There is a kind of simple poetry in it, owning your present and future. But…." The detective's face lit as he connected everything, mouth falling open a bit and eyebrows rising towards his hairline; he stood to position himself before James, and he began to speak slightly faster now.

"Your violent temperament isn't solely your own, is it? It comes from the deep, the dark, the blackest depths of sin…and from such an early age of introduction." The detective could see miniscule signals of Moriarty's insanity uncoiling, but gave no sign that he took any notice. The other man's fingers were twisted tightly into the couch's fabric. His respiratory rate had elevated to about four to six more breaths per minute than Sherlock was used to seeing. And the depths added to his eyes drew the detective's gaze into the soul of his nemesis, and beyond. So very open, those keyholes; unguarded. Sherlock whispered, "Your mother."

Jim recoiled in a manner noticeable only to those who were studied in detecting these things. And Sherlock absorbed each detail easily. "She is the catalyst. She was killed before you….violently. Senselessly. And not in some freak accident. No. She was _murdered_…by your father." The detective closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if playing something through his mind. Then, his head snapped back with intent focus, eyes once more locking gazes. "And your father, such a brute of man, wasn't he? Not well-liked, or well-loved, by anyone. He wouldn't be missed when he was…when you…no…when he...was killed…..by….." Before he could finish with his accusation of patricide, a flash of understanding came soaring forth from the depths of his Mind Palace. There for all to see, but invisible all the same. Hidden away in plain sight. The way Jim dressed, the facade he put on, the way he held himself, his attention to detail, his hair parted just so in order to cover the scar right at the hairline, his violent emotional shifts…. '_I'm sooooooo changeable_'…. "Oh!" The detective couldn't believe his own deduction for once. "…when he..was…killed by….your…..brother…..a _brother_…" Sherlock breathed out the last word twice. And this time the criminal _did_ cringe visibly, his mouth drawing down at the corners and his eyes bitter. "You were raised then…" Sherlock continued, peering curiously, seeking his answers in Jim's every line, curve, and silent bit of communication, "…by your brother…." The detective's voice dropped very low as he leaned down into the face of the criminal, placing both hands to the couch back, one on either side of Jim's head. "…your brother raised you….and he…." Sherlock almost felt…_something_….shift…as he spoke with an almost inaudible whisper, "…was _very_ cruel…" His silver-blue eyes shifted to glow with an almost morbid curiosity as he finished with, "Where…is he?"

Something inside of Jim snapped. The closeness he had recently sought from Sherlock shattered by mention of his brother. What felt like eons of emotions boiled to the surface, and all of his pent up irrationality took over as his body reacted to the perceived threat looming above him. His fist struck out, knocking Sherlock backwards and to the side to stumble and trip beside the couch. Jim was on him in a heartbeat, his ever present knife out and against the neck of the man he loved to hate most in the world.

Sherlock stared up at him, his hands having grasped the knife-wielding arm too late, now they just loosely clung to the forearm, waiting to see if this would finally be it. Moriarty's breathing was harsh and feral, his frame shook with slight tremors of rage at having been in such a position of vulnerability. His eyes held nothing but madness as the detective reached up to the blade at his own neck, lightly sliding his hand along the other man's wrist to end up softly covering the hand holding his life at bay from spilling out. Time seemed suspended for them as they each fought their own demons. James, a scared little boy of a poverty stricken Irish slum still haunted by family terrors. Sherlock, a man who once lived for the Work, now bereft of his life's purpose, seeking and finding nothing but a sudden interest in oblivion.

The detective's grip suddenly tightened on the knife hand, and he pulled it more forcefully against the side of his throat, the abrupt jerk waking a somewhat more sensible portion of James' own mind. "Do it," Sherlock whispered to him. He was ready, he could feel it. There was nothing for him in this world anyway. But Jim retracted his arm, leaving only a small cut that barely did him the favor of bleeding. And the man stared at the blade in his hand in an odd mixture of curiosity and anger before tossing it to the side. Sherlock looked up at him to speak. "Or not," sounded off a now mortally bored detective.

Jim pushed off of the man he straddled, standing in a lurch. He looked down at Sherlock one last time, shaking his head. "The shit you do…." he began as he drew his hands back through his hair, pulling the skin of his face taut for a moment and then releasing. He blew out a huff of air between pursed lips before turning abruptly to leave the study. His every move bespoke deep conflict within himself. And he paused right before passing through the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at the still supine form of the taller man, and tried again, "The _shit_ you do to me." And with that, he left.

Sherlock lay there with his head craned up, looking at the doorway for several moments before setting his head back down against the floor. His gaze took in the ceiling as his mind once more flew down some lengthy corridors of his Mind Palace long since fallen into almost disrepair due to lack of use. These areas were labeled for deletion at some future point. But his mind soon became distracted at the revelations this night had brought. And he sat himself up, propped on bent elbows, as he stared after where James had exited. He smiled, somewhat sadly, but a smile nonetheless, and softly said, "Check."


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: So this was a present I wrote for Revella whilst drunk one night. Written drunk; edited sober. It was too much fun not to share, though! Also, since I got a few PMs requesting a touch more Sheriarty, I consider this a response to the requests. However, some may hate me for how it ends up….let me know! ;)**_

The detective was reclined lengthwise along the couch again as Jim reentered the room with a new sense of purpose. The taller man's body was a picture of relaxation, with shoulders against the couch's arm and long legs almost reaching the other end but for about two feet. His posture bespoke little in the way of his usual wariness, as if the men's earlier confrontational deductions had actually been cathartic for him. Jim's eyes narrowed down. Yes. Tonight, he would push a bit harder. See how far he had progressed… His steps carried him all the way to the couch, the silver eyes following his path. Jim knelt fluidly as he came to a stop, with one knee down between the detective's legs, the other extended behind him, toe touching the floor for balance. One hand he placed beside the detective's head on the sofa arm while the other stretched downward to retrieve the discarded knife from before and tuck it back into his belt. After, with one hand hanging free, Moriarty evaluated his prey and the effect the detective's proximity had on himself.

Jim's face hovered within inches of the detective's. Something deep within the criminal mastermind had been breached. And it appeared even Sherlock could feel it within himself. An acceptance of something of great magnitude. There was a sort of resonance present that he had noticed shared between them, even as enemies. And Jim's sudden change from violent anger to this calm, yet intense, being before him held the taller man in thrall. Moriarty's eyes flicked to focus on the detective's lips as he spoke softly.

"It's a small crime, Sherlock….to link yourself to me." He slowly raised a hand and touched a spot just behind Sherlock's ear. "To become mine," he said as he gently ran his fingers back through the soft curls with his free hand, "mind, body…_soul_."

The criminal breathed deeply, closing his eyes momentarily as he did, then dragged their view up from cupid's bow to quicksilver intelligence. Jim could feel the other man's true and honest attention was on him and him alone. No Mind Palace. No games. _He's listening_, he thought, and finished with a hopeful question, _Changing_?

"It wouldn't hurt you…I promise," he said as he reached to hold both sides of Sherlock's face between his palms. "I would never hold you back. You could do as you pleased," the criminal tilted his head to the side, eyes closing with a slight shiver, indicating that it was a promise he took great pleasure in contemplating. "As long as it was by my side. Together." Deep brown brightened to hazel as those eyes met Sherlock's again, and both could feel the electrical current coursing along their points of contact. Jim's hand left Sherlock's curls and slid along the pale neck to the V of the detective's shirt, fingers held lightly over the heart beating underneath them.

"Such a small crime, my detective. My..…enemy," Jim breathed.

Moriarty pushed himself up and away from the other man, relocating to the other side of the couch, one arm draped across his abdomen, the other hanging downwards to the floor as he continued.

"But, one well worth committing…." He held up a well-manicured finger in entreaty, "Come here….."

A moment of pause stretched forth into eternity as they stared. Waiting. Waiting…. The air between them sparked to life, an almost palpable thing. Jim waited, hand beckoning… And Sherlock followed, climbing over to Jim on hands and knees, stopping only when they had resumed the vast distance of inches between their faces once more. Jim smiled, and Sherlock saw something flicker within its depths. Not even there for a second before the initial smile was replaced with the semi-smirk now in its place. _Sorrow_? Jim reached up with one hand, grasping the detective's collar and tugging him just millimeters closer. Jim's words could be felt on Sherlock's lips as he spoke one last time before closing his eyes.

"Let me show you how it could be, if you just…gave in….," a deep, tremulous breath finished with words even Sherlock, close as he was, couldn't make out, "…just…loved me."

Sherlock's eyes closed, and he felt a light kiss pressed to his lips, chaste and questioning. Testing… He did not return the kiss…but he allowed it, and that was a small victory in itself. Jim opened his eyes at the same time as Sherlock, the criminal smiling in a deceptively innocent manner, and the detective looking mildly confused at his own actions…or rather, inactions. The criminal seized the moment to stand, pulling the other man up with him.

"Come," was all he said, turning and walking away. And once again, Sherlock stood torn for moments, wondering when in his life he had ever thought to be following this man without murderous intent….and then he trailed after James Moriarty, out of the study and down the hall.

It took several minutes to reach Sherlock's room. _Really have to move him closer_, Jim thought once again. And he glared at the guard on this wing, causing a most hasty retreat from view as he led Sherlock to the door of his guest quarters. He smiled, gesturing for the taller man to go in first, ever the gentleman. And the detective went warily, obviously put on edge by Jim's lastingly friendly and considerate manner.

A few paces into the room, Sherlock turned to track the other man's position, only to find himself almost face to face with him once again. The shorter man's hands came up to lightly grasp the detective's upper arms, eyes full of indecipherable things. Things of wisdom. Things of life. Things with teeth… And then Sherlock found himself shoved backwards, bumping into the bed. He looked on in confusion as his legs came to rest with the mattress firmly against their backs, and the criminal came on. Silver blue eyes watched warily as the other man approached, loosening tie and shirt cuffs as he did. Not a word was said as Jim came right up before the detective, faces within breaths of each other, bringing his tie out in one hand and snapping it around the taller man's shoulders, into his other waiting hand. Jim yanked, and Sherlock was pulled flush against him, the surprise contact pushing air from his lungs. The criminal smiled up at him…almost eerily, truth be told.

Then Moriarty let fall the tie and reached up to lightly run fingers along the detective's jawline. Sherlock's eyes slid closed, and he…what was that? Shivered. _Got him,_ Jim mused as he felt the thrum of the other man's pulse underneath fingers that had found their way to the detective's neck. Sherlock's head tilted back, lips parted slightly and eyes still closed as Jim's fingers rested there on his throat. The criminal leaned forward just a bit, and tasted the skin above the detective's clavicle. _Mm, almost sweet, with a hint of salt_, he mused_._ _And his scent…oh_… He breathed in deeply as his lips moved over that delicate area of flesh. A light aftershave, pine…and cinnamon swirled chocolate….

A low purr came from the detective's throat unbidden, and Jim felt the subtle vibration with his tongue. Streaks of soft light shot through to his core as he absorbed his victory. He had him. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. _His_ consulting detective… He smiled against the skin of Sherlock's neck, and then gripped his shoulders harshly, pushing him backwards once more, landing the other man on his back looking up from the mattress.

There was no alarm or confusion in the taller man's eyes now, though, only want. _Need_. Jim had finally broken him. Had him. _Yes_. He would _have_ him. Moriarty felt a light tremor run over his frame at the thought. And then he crawled over the detective, being sure to slide his legs against the other man's as he did, heat from the contact going straight to his groin. And from the state of the other's trousers, he was experiencing similar stirrings below.

Jim reached over and pressed a hand to the detective's throat, almost in threat, and almost in caress. As if he was torn. He let it slide slowly off of the bounding pulse and to the duvet beside the man's head. Then he dropped his mouth abruptly to the other man's shoulder and bit, almost hard enough to break skin. Sherlock's surprised cry nearly undid Jim, so animal-like and full of desire it reached down to his toes. His tongue ran circles around the pale flesh of the detective beneath him, and Sherlock ran his hands down Jim's sides, teasing with trails of fire, grasping as if seeking purchase, seeking a way back from the maelstrom he was trapped within.

Another bite, and Sherlock's hands ceased their roaming, gripping tightly into Jim's shirt and tugging, seeking entrance to the skin beneath its unwanted protection. And Jim sat back on his knees above the detective, pulling his shirt violently from himself. The man beneath him attempted the same, but was so flatlined from want that his fingers wouldn't work properly for him. So Jim reached out and stilled his hands, the detective giving him a questioning look as he did so. And then Jim reached into his back pocket, pulling his knife to lay it against the top of the Sherlock's sternum. Then he began sliding it slowly from the chest..…_Mmm_….lower…..down the abdomen…_oh_…lower….._yes_….._d__elicious_….

Sherlock's hands had lost some of their strength when the knife made its appearance for the second time that night, but he kept his grip and didn't flinch as Jim ran it down his front and then snuck the point beneath the finely tailored cloth and cut it straight off of the taller man, buttons arcing into the air. A beautiful expanse of pale, almost ethereal flesh greeted the criminal's eyes as the fabric fell away defeated. And Sherlock tugged on Jim's hips almost playfully, causing a rare true smile to flit across the Jim's features, there and gone. But it had stayed for longer this time.

Jim stabbed the knife into the mattress beside them and leaned back over, a hand on either side of the detective's head, staring deeply into his once-sworn enemy's eyes. And he nearly gasped at the emotions that threatened to pull him under with their force. He wanted this man before him as no other. He wanted the closeness that nothing but sex could bring. He wanted to be one with Sherlock, to be inside him, part of him. To feel and think like him, _with_ him. And his brown eyes showed everything to the man below him, who reached up and placed a hand to the back of Jim's neck and pulled him back down to where their noses touched. _Mine…he's mine_, Jim thought, hardening even more fully at the thought of ownership.

They stared at each other for many seconds across the tips of their noses, as if weighing the resolve of their current situation. One time enemies, of the deadliest kind. Rivals for superior intellect. Yet here and now, all they could feel was a pull that was old as time itself. Animal and violent, it broke loose between them, filling the meager space between their bodies, and each man saw it heating and expanding within the other's eyes, in the other's soul….

The Event Horizon was crested, each facing his own decision, knowing there was no turning back after. There was no telling what this act would do to either one. No way to know until after. It was as if the very bodies in which they dwelt had come to represent the ultimate incarnations of good and evil. And the forces at play within their minds and wills was tempestuous and full of a fierce longing. It was a vicious thing, and they each reveled in it, unbeknownst to the other. Neither knew who submitted in the first millimeter of motion, but it happened nonetheless. Sherlock and Jim's mouths clashed together in a ferocious display of a battle for dominance. Jim's hands sought to entrap Sherlock's as he reached above the man's head to attempt holding the detective's arms to the bed.

Sherlock managed to keep one hand free, however, and put it to good use. Reaching down between them, he grasped the length of James Moriarty….and stroked. Firm, and sure. He knew he had the upper hand immediately as the other man almost buckled under the onslaught. It was clear by Sherlock's expression that he distantly wondered if anyone had ever had this same effect on the criminal, or ever even been allowed to touch him in this manner. Doubtful.

He continued his below the belt assault right up until Jim's mouth relinquished his own and dove for his chest, pulling the throbbing member away from the detective's seeking hands. James' mouth caught Sherlock's nipple and began to tease and suck, with just a hint of teeth. And the taller man gasped, feeling the pleasure racing throughout his body. He ran a shaking hand through Jim's hair, and threw his own head back into the sheets as Jim moved to the other side of his chest. The detective writhed on the mattress below Moriarty, seeming almost defeated. Until….the room spun, and then James was staring up at the ceiling, with a very flushed and confident looking Holmes above him. He reached up as if to grab the detective back down, but the other man swatted his hands away, moving lower. And Jim gasped as he realized what Sherlock's objective was.

The taller man slid down the bed, running his hands along the inner thighs of the man beneath him. Jim groaned, never having had this kind of experience before. He had only ever been _taken_, in his youth, by those his mother deemed able to pay for his "services." He had never let another touch him this way since then. He had maintained his body as he had his mind. Pure. Though the identity he donned purposefully led others to believe differently. Now, it was as if a window into his soul had been broken, and the detective was leaping through it. He heard the fly unzip, and felt the cool air upon his skin. His eyes closed, and he took a deep breath.

His body jerked downward as the detective pulled his trousers and pants from him and tossed them to the floor with his shoes. When had those come off anyway? But then the other man was back, ripped shirt having been discarded also, and he settled between the criminal's thighs. Jim's eyes flew open, his mouth an "O" of surprise, as the detective took him in his mouth. He gasped and felt he was falling through the bed and into a realm of nothing but the five senses. Was this what he had been missing? And then his brain went into a tunnel of white noise as the other man began to take long pulls at his throbbing cock, each one more devious than the last. Some with tongue, and others with just pressure, and an occasional grazing of teeth.

He thought for a moment, an embarrassing one, that he was going to be the first to come. So he grabbed the detective's hair and changed his pace, modifying it, just..so. And there…that was it…oh, my…. He sank into blissful pleasures heretofore unknown to him. And he felt himself beginning to climb again towards that peak and subsequent fall, and so he planned his return assault…

He calmed his mind, trying to find just the right time to make his move…and there! He sat up and reached down with both arms to pull the detective up along his body, sliding him over his slick cock as he did. He brought the man up to his face level and kissed him again, hard, tasting himself in the kiss. And, _oh_….the things it did inside of him…. He shoved up and sideways, surprising the detective and toppling him onto the space beside himself. Jim pounced over him, once again on top as he tore at the belt strap around the detective's waist. It came free with a slick sound of leather across fabric. And then he practically tore the pants off of the taller man, actually reaching over for the stuck-in knife and running its edge up underneath the zipper to tear it open when he couldn't get his hands to coordinate.

Sherlock was lost within the moment, it was obvious. How could this be happening? He looked through heavy lids at the vision of his lust filled 'arch enemy' rising over him, hardened member throbbing in time with his heartbeat and looking on at him with nothing but the fiery blast of desire. He looked as if he were about to think, but was shot dead by the pressured feel of Moriarty's smooth hand on his cock.

Jim stroked in a rhythm that was almost uncoordinated, so close was he still to his own fulfillment. And the man twisting beneath his palms wasn't helping matters any. He managed to get the rest of Sherlock's clothing off and then snuck a quick dip of his head to the man's groin, placing just the head in his mouth. Sherlock's moan lit up every sensory organ within his body, and he deep throated the entire length of the man beneath him. The detective stopped breathing..1..2..3..such was the rush of pleasure that overwhelmed him. Almost sensory overload. He would be over, and quick, with any more of this. And the criminal sensed this, too, as he slowly slid his tongue along the shaft, changing tact once again. Jim wasn't having this end without his initial wish coming true….

Quickly, while the detective was still heavily sedated by his own arousal and lust, Jim rolled to the side of the bed and reached under the mattress, removing something that would help his next experiment along. He applied the lubricant liberally to his own length, and then crawled back over Sherlock. He grabbed the man forcibly and flipped him over onto his belly, causing a confused grunt to erupt. Then he leaned over and pulled the man to stand on his knees, so that they were both kneeled, with the detective's back against his front. He set his mouth near the man's ear and whispered.

"Now, Sherlock…you will come for me." And he reached down, positioning himself just so, and thrust firmly, but slowly, into the detective.

Sherlock's body seized, and he began to fall forward at the onslaught of what Jim's cock was doing to him, but the criminal held him firm against himself, one arm snaked up across the detective's chest and the other steadying at his hip. He thrust rhythmically, slowly at first, letting the other man get used to it a bit. It was so hot now between them, sliding their bodies against one another in a heated friction of emotional instability and desire. Neither wanted the other to feel superior in this game of theirs, but both also _wanted_ the other…brutally. And then Sherlock reached up, grabbing at the hand over his chest, and brought Jim's fingers to his mouth…and sucked….Jim lost his shit.

He froze. Only for a second, but the detective knew he had gotten one over. And then, violently, Jim pulled his hand away from Sherlock's mouth, grabbed his hips, and began thrusting as hard as he could possibly force their bodies together. Sherlock gave up. It was too much to fight, and he gave in fully to this thing they did. Together. The detective reached around behind him with both hands, holding the other man's hips to him, and Jim simultaneously slid a hand around to Sherlock's cock and began pumping him in time to his thrusts. The criminal touched his mouth to the fever hot skin of Sherlock's neck, sucking hard enough that tomorrow would show much evidence of this night's passing. Neither cared.

The thrusts became erratic and jerky soon after, and the detective placed his hand over Jim's, helping to guide his fingers along his dick as his brain fizzled with the body's actions. Sweat poured off both of them, slick, and scorching. The breath on Sherlock's neck was frantic, almost as if the other man was crying. And so was the detective's, as he did a self-examination. He felt it coming on, and he did nothing to stop it. Jim finally came first, flying through a field of stars it seemed, hot bursts flowing forth into the man he held so tightly against himself. And he hoarsely called Sherlock's name, his mouth once again finding purchase against the back of the other man's neck. The detective himself was undone at that, and he felt his own hot seed begin to spill out over their entwined hands, shooting him further into the fields of ecstasy as he cried out his love's name, near incoherency and almost unconscious with the action….

"JOHN!"

James woke thrashing in his bed, covers tossed wildly in the air as he finally managed to open his eyes. They were wild seas of lust-filled hazel for a moment before darkening once again. His hands splayed out beside him, gripping the sheets tightly. His harsh panting the only sound in his palatial master bedroom. A dream. That was all. It was just a dream. He repeated this several times before finally deciding to believe it. His body was drenched in a hot sweat that was turning cool and uncomfortable. He peeled off his white sleep tank as he sat up on the side of his bed, placed his face in his hands, and whispered into the resumed silent loneliness of his room, "The shit you do to me…"

_**A/N: Didn't see that one coming, did ya?**_


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: Yes, eventually, there will be Johnlock again. However, that is a ways off. Much angst and mayhem will ensue before then. This fic is growing in my mind every time I sit down to type. I have a direction I'm heading, but as for what happens in between reaching the destination I have planned, that is completely up to the characters and how they play out their scenes in my mind. Sometimes I think Jim will react a certain way to something Sherlock does, but it changes when the moment is upon him. At any rate, I know some are a bit put out at the sheer amount of Sheriarty in this story that began as more of a sweet/funny Johnlock. I promise I only meant for Jim to play a part in like maybe 5-6 chapters! But I find that I actually enjoy some Jimlock a LOT more than I had originally thought I would. They're such as tasty combination of crazy and intelligent… But as I said, the story grows within my mind each time I set fingers to keyboard. And it's nowhere near finished!**_

_**Thanks yet again to Revella, who is a constant source of inspiration for me and a good sounding board for some of my more intriguing plot developments**_

_**Also, thanks to my husband for the last memory John has in this chapter. I was lamenting aloud that I needed something lastingly sweet, and BAM. My hubby actually threw out an idea that ended up sooooo deliciously full of the feely sweetness of Johnlock!**_

Light rain pattered down against the window panes of 221B. One actually stood partially open, and the floor beneath it was drenched from the constant influx from outside. Curtains trailed softly with a sporadic wind that snuck through. And other than the light of the fireplace and the moon through the windows, the once lively flat lay somber and dark, as if in mourning. The now sole occupant of the flat reclined almost bonelessly in his armchair beside the fireplace, the flames' flickering warmth playing tricks with how the shadows danced across eyes that were focused just in front him, on one piece of furniture in particular. Empty. Streaks of dried tears were still in evidence upon his cheeks and chin. And the shaky way he drew in each breath told the story of what had occurred within him this day. The once proud soldier had broken, utterly.

There was nothing different in this night in particular from the others that Sherlock had been gone. He had cried already; many times in fact. But something about this day had hit him. Hard. It had been two weeks to the day now since his best friend had been…_taken_ from him. And besides the last photo of Sherlock in the car almost a week ago, there had been no word. No news was generally being considered good news where Moriarty was concerned, however. Then Mycroft had texted him earlier today. But he just couldn't bring himself to respond to the man. In actuality, he was dreading even looking at the elder Holmes. As little as they may resemble each other, he would still see Sherlock in every silent expression, every thought transitioned to spoken word. Sherlock's blood was coursing through Mycroft, albeit a thinner strain…but still. And the thought that the only living remnant of that blood might now reside _solely_ within the elder brother…. He shuddered. In his current state of mind, it seemed to him that he would feel the pull of that life's fluid, unto the rending of his soul. And so, he chose avoidance.

He looked to his almost empty tumbler of whiskey, not usually his choice of beverage, but it felt appropriate for his mood this night. _Regretful reminiscing is never complete without being at least partially inebriated_, he thought to himself. Then he sighed in a highly exaggerated manner, mostly just to hear himself and make a bit of noise in the quiet flat. He rubbed his face, thinking of how utterly pathetic he was, and glanced at the clock. _It's late….. But then, how does that even matter anymore?_ His eyes drifted over to the window. No. Not just 'the window.' The _sniper's hide_ where Sherlock used to bombard the pigeons. He almost smiled at the thought. His eyes slid closed as memories began to flood his mind. Some silly. Some quite nostalgic. Others sad in their passing…. And many were composed of the still, quiet moments that had led him to the discovery of what he now felt for the detective. He heard the rain pick up and almost surfaced back into full consciousness again. Not quite, though. The pull of these seemingly insignificant moments was strong indeed, and they swirled him back under, allowing but one brief thought to escape before he fully succumbed to his reminiscences. _Memories_, he thought in passing. _Please, whatever power there may be out there…..let these not be the last. Let me have new ones to look forward to making. Please?_

_**16 months ago….**_

John saw Lestrade waiting at the door of their flat as he came home from the clinic. The DI smiled but looked somewhat harried as he spoke.

"John, hey. Glad you're home. I came over to see Sherlock; he actually texted me and told me to come over, but no one's answering the door. Do you know anything about it?" John shrugged his response concerning his odd flatmate's behavior as he unlocked the door and went in, Greg following behind. The doctor motioned for the DI to follow him up, and they quickly mounted the stairs, each coming into the living area, and each stopping dead to stare at what lay before them.

"Sherlock!" John cried, flabbergasted at what he saw. The detective looked up from his chess game at the sofa where he was bent forward with elbows to knees and hands clasped and pressed into his lips.

"John?" came the simple reply, eyes an innocent pale green today.

"You…you've….you've got no _pants_ on!" And Lestrade shifted uncomfortably behind the doctor, looking anywhere but the sofa. Sherlock stood and looked down confusedly, making the viewing situation even worse.

"Must've forgotten to dress after my shower. No matter. Lestrade, what do you need?"

"For you to put some bloody trousers on, you git!" the DI screamed at the floor, hands shoved deep in his pockets, "And _you_ were the one who texted _me_!"

John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's. And then he saw it. The quicksilver flash of light deep within the detective's eyes that gave him away. He turned to the flustered and red-faced DI.

"Greg, would you give us a minute? I promise you it won't take long."

"Yeah, all right. I'll feel better out in the hall anyway." And he stepped out of the flat and closed the door. John whirled to Sherlock.

"You did that on purpose," he accused.

"Every one of my actions has a purpose, John."

"Yeah, well, but, this was done _deliberately_ to set him off."

"Experiment."

"What? What could you _possibly_ learn from this?"

"That if I need Lestrade to shut up and go away, I need only remove my clothes."

"Sherlock, that would happen with _any_ sane person."

"_You're_ still here." A moment's silence.

"Yeah…..I am."

_**Present…**_

John smiled into his glass as he took another sip. That tall, leggy bastard had always been able to surprise him, no matter the circumstances. There was almost literally nothing John could conceive of that the detective would not be capable of doing on a whim. His stomach clenched. _Except hurt __**me**_, he thought, suddenly darkening the tone of the happy memories. _He would never do that. I know him. For real. 100%_. His mind drifted over thoughts of what he had been witness to on that security recording of the car dealership. Sherlock had seemed so…strange. Off. As if he were at once the same person…but merged with someone new. Like an old friend you lose touch with and meet again after ten years apart. Essentially, they are the same; but there are new aspects, new memories, new experiences. He shuddered to think what that madman had done to his friend to bring him to the point where Sherlock would be acting as if being around him was perfectly natural. And the poor doctor couldn't help but feel a cold thread of jealousy wind tightly about his heart…

No. He shook his head. Thinking like this did nothing good. And so he sent his mind down other paths. The thought of jealousy seemed to be a theme amongst them, however. And he twisted and wrestled with it until he cleared out the bad ones, unearthing one of the memories that had him so pissed at the time, but now so sick at the thought of what he hadn't realized had been happening to his relationship with the detective. And he supposed, hoped, that the other man had known subconsciously, too. Why else ruin so many of John's dates?

_**14 months ago…**_

John and his date crashed into the door of his bedroom, tearing at each other's clothes wildly. He had only been dating Jesse for a few short weeks, but apparently she was every bit as eager as he was to move their relationship to the next physical tier. Shirts and pants hit the floor as they came crashing together onto the bed, with her landing across the top of him. She grinned, very catlike and playful, flipping her raven hair back over her tan shoulders in a way that sent a jolt of something hot through John's groin. She leaned back down as he pulled her up further on top of himself, and they resumed the heated kissing that had been interrupted moments ago.

It took very little time to divest themselves of the rest of their underclothes and connect their bodies in the way that nature had designed for them to. John's eyes drank in every inch of her athletic form, rarely leaving it. It had been quite some time since he had had any female, ahem, companionship…. And he intended to take as much from it visually as possible. He watched as she pushed herself up, straddling him, riding him almost, with hands clasping at his pelvic bones. Her eyes closed, mouth open wide. He shuddered, hands on her waist, and turned his eyes heavenward to send up a silent thank you. And he froze.

There, suspended above him, secured hand and foot to the ceiling in an almost spread-eagle fashion, was a certain consulting detective. John couldn't see exactly what had been built into his ceiling to allow this, but it hardly mattered. He watched in growing dismay as Sherlock removed a hand from one of the grips, shaking from the strain as he did, and raised a finger to his lips in supplication for silence. Then he gave a quick wink as he returned his hand to its holster.

Jesse had noticed by this point that John had stopped responding to her ministrations, her eyes curious at first. His gaze left the ceiling for a moment and found hers. She recovered her breath a bit as she tried to work out what the issue was. John's expression pleaded with her. _Don't look. Don't look. Don't look_. And so, of course, her head turned up and over at the ceiling above her.

The scream that erupted nearly had John's ear drums burst from its intensity. Jesse threw herself off of the bed and stumbled over to the only door closest to her: the closet. She slammed it behind herself as Sherlock fell to the bed where John had been just seconds before he hit, the ex-soldier having stood up just before the impact. Becoming more and more pissed by the second, John watched as the detective righted himself. So pissed that he couldn't even find the presence of mind to speak yet. Sherlock sat up quickly and then stood, looking down at John as if he had no idea what was so upsetting. Then his eyes lit up with an inner understanding, and he walked to the closet, reaching for the doorknob.

"Sherlock. Don't!" came the cry from behind him.

"She doesn't know who I am, John. I am merely introducing myself so she needn't feel so awkward," the detective explained coolly as he turned back halfway to face the doctor while John responded.

"Oh, and _that's_ what's going to make _this_ not awkward, is it?!" John almost yelled, gesturing around at themselves. And John suddenly realized he was still _very_ naked. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it around himself, just catching the tail end of a smirk from the detective as the other man turned back to the closet and opened the door.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I live…." Her shriek pierced even Sherlock's hardened nerves…and he slammed the door. _WHAM!_ He stood there, rooted to the spot, staring in amazement at the now-closed door before him.

"Sherlock, _hmm_…" John exhaled loudly. "What…were you _doing_ up there?"

"Testing how a body might fall from a certain height. Molly wouldn't let me have a real body, and your ceiling is 4 inches higher than my own." He said all this calmly, as if John should understand perfectly well what he was conveying.

The doctor just stared. He could hear Jesse crying softly in the closet. His eyes blinked forcefully, as if trying to rid himself of this image, this occurrence. The taller man's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Do you think she'd feel better if I were naked, too? You know, to even the field?"

Sherlock ducked as the blanket came hurtling at his face. Then he made a most ungainly and hasty retreat when the body that had just recently been swathed in said blanket tore across the floor toward him clad only in socks.

_**Present… **_

John's knuckles were pressed into his mouth as he smiled at the memory. Not so funny back then. Hilarious now. And there were so many moments over their time together that brought out similar reactions in him. Most were filled with warmth and humor, though some were most definitely _not_ at the time. Sherlock altered the perspective and perception of everyone who came to know him. And yet, John thought, how many people _actually_ took the time to know the detective? When added up, and not counting family, John thought it was an awfully pitiful number. But Sherlock didn't open up to just everyone. You had to get past the "piss off" phase first.

_**12 months ago…**_

Sherlock sat at the table as John made tea for them. He tinkered with some impossible seeming rubbery substance and wires, focused intently on his hands. The tea cup plonked down beside him, but he made no move to touch it. John walked to the fridge for some milk after staring down at the other man for a minute, trying to decipher just what exactly that was in his hands. But he felt something catch his wrist as he took a step away. His heart picked up tempo as he realized that the detective had wrapped his hand securely around his wrist…and was keeping it there.

"Don't," Sherlock said, still not looking up.

"What?"

"Don't get milk."

"What? Why?"

"I don't need any."

"Well, _you_ might not, but I do."

"In that case…" The detective's sentence was interrupted by a horrified scream erupting from Mrs. Hudson's flat. John started, and was going to run downstairs, but was once again restrained by the hand that yet still remained in place.

"No," came the detective's command.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is screaming. She…"

"Yes, I know very well. And she's perfectly alright."

"What? How do you know?"

"Frogs," came the unconcerned reply.

"Eh, what?"

"She found the bag of frogs I had to put in her refrigerator." Silver eyes still remained focused on the mystery substance he tinkered with before him.

"Now look, Sherlock, I can't believe I'm going to say this, but why did you have to put them in _her_ fridge? Why not just use ours?"

"Then there wouldn't be enough room for all of the blood."

"The….blood…." John said softly. The hand gripping his wrist slowly let go. He stood there a moment, reached his hand out to the fridge door as if he still was going to go through with it…and let it drop to his side. What followed was one of the world's largest sighs…

_**Present…**_

_God, what a flatmate to end up with._ And when had separated body parts and the myriad selections of their assorted fluids become commonplace kitchenware? It seemed it must have happened suddenly rather than as a gradual change. The acceptance of Sherlock's odd inclinations and uncanny ability to take the piss of just anyone had seemed almost naturally accepted by John, as if they had been friends for years rather than days. And when he encountered something new and frightening/disgusting/revolting/shocking/insulting/etc, John would just adapt himself to the new ideal. His addiction for things dangerous, however, he didn't need to adapt. And though it got him into all manner of difficulties…still, he reveled in the times they stood side by side, in the thick of certain discovery, high on adrenaline and looking for the next bit of trouble.

_**11 months ago…**_

John's date was a quiet thing, all waif-like and shy. Her brown hair frequently covered her face as if she was afraid to show it to the world. She barely touched her food, said little to nothing, and smiled nervously quite often. Quiet. Very…quiet. John was bored. Understatement. Though he _was_ glad that Sherlock had suggested this restaurant. The food was superb, even if the company wasn't. But that's what blind dates were like. Good or bad, they were always…surprising, in some capacity.

His flagging attention was suddenly caught and held by a particular patron across the room who held the menu _just so_, so that John couldn't see his face from the angle he sat. Said patron, when the menu lowered and turned just a fraction, gave the doctor's brain a nudge. He recognized those long fingers….that posture… _Sherlock? Oh, shit_. The menu-wielding patron stood, gave John a wink, and headed towards the back of the place. John rose quickly, knocking the table as he did, and he gave a placating mumble of something resembling, "Excuse me a moment," to his date as he followed the now retreating form of the detective.

He caught up to him as they entered the men's room together, grabbing his arm and twisting him around as they passed through the door and it swung closed. It pulled the taller man directly into the doctor's space, faces six inches or so apart, as John spoke softly, but angrily.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"Case," the detective replied, removing his arm from John's grasp and making as if to straighten the buttons on his sleeve cuffs.

"What. Case?" John asked tersely.

"The one I sent you here to reconnoiter for?" Silence. John shook his head at this reply. Reconnoiter? For a case? And then it hit him. _Sherlock_ had asked where he was going to take his date. Then the _detective_ had suggested this restaurant. Oh. Oh no. Oh, he was so stupid. How did he not see this? His eyes found Sherlock's, full of affront. And then the taller man spoke before he could.

"Come one, John! Robbery, assault….almost arson, too. He's gone out the back just now. If we hurry, we can still catch him!" Another quick wink was thrown out with a wolfish grin. "Could be dangerous." And John stood there as the other man pushed around him and passed through the fire exit…. It was quiet for but a few moments before he turned himself and followed hurriedly behind the detective. "Shit."

Several minutes, and many streets, later, John found himself in a precarious position, hanging from a fourth floor ledge that ran along the tops of the building's windows. A shot rang out over his head, causing him to duck, and he asked himself repetitive questions. _Why am I here?_ chased itself across the doctor's mind as he clung to the side of the building and bullets started flying by his head, the shooter unable to get a good, clear shot. _Why am I doing this?_ He glanced sideways at Sherlock, his anchor in this current world of insanities he had plunged into. There was a gash bleeding all along the taller man's forehead, and John grimaced at the sight while shifting his grip to move closer to the open window. Sherlock swung himself along likewise toward the opening, drawing beside the doctor and giving him a level look, an understanding that was shared between them. Then he swung out slightly, grinned at John like a maniac, and kicked in the glass of the window as the doctor pulled his own gun to return fire. _Oh, that's why_.

_**Present…**_

John giggled a little at the memory of a bit later that same day when he had realized something else…..

_**11 months ago…again…**_

"That was amazing!" John exclaimed as they sat on top of the now-subdued suspect. Sherlock smiled softly at his constant stream of compliments, watching as the vehicles from NSY pulled up to the sidewalk where the chase had finally ended.

"Yes," the detective agreed. Then he flicked his eyes at the officers, and pushed off of the man. A whoomph of air escaped the restrained man's mouth as he did so. Sherlock stretched and then held a hand out to John to help him stand, too. "Hungry?" the younger man asked as John was pulled up with a bit too much force, causing him to crash slightly into the other man. He stepped back and looked up into the clear silver aimed at him.

"Sure. I was about to say I wasn't hungry, but after that, I feel I…." His eyes went wide, his body rigid, mouth falling open, and then he got a most ridiculously regretful and hurt look on his face.

"What? John! What is it?! Were you hit somewhere?" Sherlock grabbed at him, trying to twist him around and examine him. The doctor grabbed the detective's seeking hands and held them firm, staring at the ground as he spoke.

"No," the older man said firmly.

"No what?"

"I wasn't hit."

"Then what is it?"

"_Rachele_," John breathed with exasperation. And Sherlock looked at him queerly for a second before replying.

"Jeana."

"What?"

"Her name, John….. It's Jeana." Moments of silence passed…..

"_SHIT!"_

_**Present…**_

John sighed as he filled his glass once more, looking at the almost empty container it fell forth from. This wasn't solving the problem, but it was all he had for now. _Two weeks!_ he exclaimed internally. So much could have happened in two weeks. Before he could think about it any further, he downed the entire contents of the glass in one solid gulp. It burned, but so did the pain of loss. And alcohol compared not at all to that inferno of guilt and self-hatred. True, there were no reasons for him to feel this way. It was hardly his fault for Moriarty being…well, Moriarty. But still. If he just hadn't left. If he had just stayed to argue it out….

It felt like he had betrayed his best friend with his inability to help him. Even now, though they had narrowed down the search parameters, there was still far too much ground to cover to do anything quickly. The initial surge of hope had faded and withered since then. It seemed all they could do was sit and wait for Moriarty's next move, his next taunt. Whereas, if it had been reversed, Sherlock would have been hot on the trail and endlessly deducing thousands of clues that they, the average, would miss. It felt so wrong to have left the detective that day. The younger man had no emotional experiences to draw from, so of course it was to be expected that he would be frozen by John's admission. _Why didn't I stay?!_ he thought desperately, ferociously angry with himself. He groaned aloud in exasperation. And as he sat frustrated, other things crowded his overburdened and inebriated brain cells. He remembered his first clues that Sherlock wasn't quite the emotional blank that he portrayed to the world. The hidden, almost childlike inexperience he displayed when confronted with the nobler emotions had been an odd thing to catalogue. And these memories, among all, were by far his most precious. They floated by, one after another, quieting his rage and soothing his angst. He had been sick with a fever once…..

_**10 months ago…**_

"Argh," John moaned as he rolled over in bed. His bleary eyes found the clock beside himself. 0830. _Shit! Late!_ He began to fumble, with eyes closed against the dawning light, trying to get out of the blankets. But he found himself to be very inept at the whole process. He struggled…and then something cool and firm pushed him down in the middle of his chest. His back hit the mattress, and his eyes flew open. The detective stood at the side of his bed, one hand on the sheet beside him, and the other pressed to the doctor's chest, holding him down. John's eyes questioned, and an answer was soon forthcoming.

"You're sick. You've been moaning off and on for the last few hours, your body temperature is greatly elevated, and you're experiencing some mild diaphoresis in response. I've called your work; they send their regrets for your illness. Oh, and I made tea." He looked a bit guilty then, and continued, "But you didn't wake, so I drank it. I can make more?"

John's head swam. Sick? Fever? Sweating?... Moaning?! He tried once more to sit up, but he was held firm. _How did you…? No wait, have to ask out loud_, he thought. _Most of the time anyway…_

"How did you know I was sick?"

"I heard you from downstairs and came to look in on you. I found you to be in some distress, so contacted your work and moved my things in here." John looked at him confusedly.

"Things?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes, John," Sherlock gestured behind him to where John could see various books, pens, his laptop, and a jar of… _Honey_. _Please let it be honey, _John thought as Sherlock continued. "Now go back to sleep. Here." And suddenly a cool, wet rag was across his forehead, and it was as if heaven itself had alighted there, such was the relief it brought. And so he complied, watching through ever narrowing eyelids as his tall, lanky, and ever-so-pale angel settled back down at the side of his bed and began to tap away at his laptop. Silver eyes were intent on the screen before them but flicked up once and touched on John's own, and he knew he was safe. Sleep came quickly after that.

_**Present…**_

He smiled to himself, a tear leaking out amidst the alcohol and ghosts that permeated the room. A man had tried to stab him once, and Sherlock had reacted with such exaggerated violence to it that the guy had to be stitched in multiple places and needed a cast on both legs. He was such an enigma, Sherlock Holmes. Cold, calculating, brutally and cuttingly honest. But also displaying a kind of backwards compassion to those closest to him. How could he have never seen it before? _Stupid_, he thought. And then his eyes closed as he dropped into even deeper contemplations. _The first time I __**knew**__?_ He had thought often of this subject and was fairly sure he had it pinpointed, though he couldn't remember the particular holiday pertaining to the memory itself…

_**6 months ago…**_

John and Sherlock had traveled to Holmes Manor and were staying for the weekend holiday. It was cool outside, and John had become quite warm by the fire, so he decided to go for a walk before bed. It was full night outside, but the moon and stars provided ample light for a stroll. He didn't see Sherlock anywhere to ask if he wanted to come, so he headed out on his own. There were acres of land to cover on the Holmes property, if one so chose, and so he exited the large estate house and headed straight out from it.

He smelled the cigarette smoke well before he ever came upon the detective, standing at the edge of a down-sloping hill. The younger Holmes was still hiding his on-again off-again habit from his father, apparently. John smiled at the childish behavior of his genius companion as he approached.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's hands were a blur as he sought to hide the evidence, and he twisted to cover up the small light being emitted from its tip. However, as he did, John witnessed something that the whole world would never believe even if he had caught it on tape. Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, fell flat on his ass and began to slide/roll down the side of the hill.

Momentarily startled by the complete lack of grace exhibited by the always composed detective, John stood immobilized. Then, with quickening strides, he jogged to the edge of the steep hill and skidded to a stop. Or, at least, he tried….. As he began his own headlong slide/roll, he thought of how wonderful it was that no one could see them like this at night. The hill wasn't so steep that it was a dangerous ride, but it also was graded enough that stopping was almost impossible once one got moving.

Sherlock had rolled to a stop on his side and was pushing up to sit when John came tumbling into him, landing virtually on top of the detective, knocking him flat again. They lay sprawled like that for a long time…and then John giggled, softly at first, but growing in intensity. Sherlock's baritone joined him and soon they were laughing so hard that tears streamed down both of their faces.

"People really would talk, you know," John gasped out as he rolled over onto his back. Sherlock did likewise, and they lay side by side, gazing up into the heavens. Starlight sprinkled a kind of magical luminescence upon them as they observed the passing of time quietly. And it wasn't until a few minutes went by that John noticed Sherlock's hand had been lying partially over his own the whole time. His heart stopped. Rebooted. Started up again. He tried as hard as he could to not show that he had noticed this in any way, as it was obviously just a result of how they had ended up laying. The detective certainly didn't seem to be aware of it in any capacity. So he kept calm, hoping his rising pulse couldn't be perceived through his fingertips. And neither said a word for long minutes as the heavens stretched out above them in a perfect, sparkling eternity. Eventually, though, Sherlock broached something that John had never thought to hear.

"Thank you," whispered the detective.

"Eh? For what? Trying to rescue you from your own downhill escape?" John chuckled. And Sherlock was quiet for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and John sensed this was actually a moment that was not supposed to include levity.

"For being…my friend. John. I can't actually recall…ever having had any before." John's head came up from the grass and turned to the detective.

"'Course, mate. You're my best friend. I'd do anything for you." And Sherlock's head turned in kind to face the other man beside him, features lit softly by the celestial bodies above. His fingers actually twined a bit into the doctor's for a light squeeze, intensifying this moment, this break in what the detective normally externalized to the world. And it was worth every bruise John had found on himself the next day.

_**Present…**_

Tears leaked down John's cheeks unashamedly. Eyes were reddened from the repeated trauma of memories too close to heart this night. Skin was paler than normal from stress and lack of sleep. Hair was a frayed mess, sticking out at odd angles; lengthy enough to need a haircut but not quite bothersome enough to get him to the barber shop. Hands were clenched on the arms of the chair in which he sat. Head was down with chin to chest, signaling deep acceptance of something gravely important. Clothes were rumpled in a fashion that bespoke more than just a couple hours of being immobilized in this position.

Mycroft noted all of it as he came round to the front of Dr. Watson, who didn't even bother to look up from his downward gaze. The elder Holmes stood quietly for a moment, testing to see if John would respond on his own. He did not. He was lost in remembrance and self-pity. And Mycroft hadn't the time to play the concerned friend or _whatever_ else might be needed here tonight. Here was here for one purpose: to inform John of his thoughts on Sherlock's potential "choice" of alliance…and just what he would be capable of doing should said choosing go the wrong way. He had taken down one brother. He could again. Though, this time, it would not feel half as justified. However, Sherlock was capable of great evil…if given the chance…and the right incentives…and if certain moral roadblocks were removed. He looked pointedly at John. The good doctor was a soldier. He would understand. Oh, he wouldn't like it one bit, but he would recognize the threat, cooperate, and learn to cope after the deed was done. _If_ it became necessary.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak just as John finally looked up to acknowledge him. And his words died a shriveled, lingering death as he beheld the depth of the pain and suffering within the other man's eyes. All of his previous observations collided together and then fused with a few new ones.

Brown-hazel eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in suspicion, then gave way to a hopeless despair. Pulse rate had elevated at the sight of Mycroft, who knew John wasn't thinking of _him_ when he looked at him, but another Holmes. A younger Holmes. Breathing was sharp, staccato, as if on the verge of breakdown. These things and more came flying into Mycroft's observations, and all led him to the end conclusion that had now stolen his vocabulary. This was bad. This was _very_ bad. John would be useless to him this way. Maybe even a hindrance if it came down to it. And so he changed his tact, deciding that the doctor now needed to be kept in the dark about Mycroft's own decision that led down the path of fratricide.

And so, the elder Holmes merely made small talk as if he were checking in on him, with the man before him barely responding at all. News? No. None. More awkward silence. And then he quickly left, taking the stairs down to the front door rapidly. And he paused as he opened the door to look back up in the direction of the pitiful excuse for what had been a thriving ex-army doctor not even a few weeks ago. He shook his head almost imperceptibly as he whispered something into the night air that was filled with disgust…and yet just a tinge of amazement as well. But only the silent heavens above bore witness to the word, "Love," being uttered in such revulsion by the British Government.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Whew. Lots of stuff going on right now in my "real" life, so sorry about the delay in posting. Anyway, herein is a peak into Jim's past that will continue on into the next chapter. Hope y'all enjoy my dabble into the possibility of how this mad villain counterpart of Sherlock came to be. I surely did. And thanks to Revella, as usual, for her support/encouragement/proofing. Our late night drunken Jimlock/Johnlock emails produce some startlingly weird ideas in my funny little brain.

I had some difficulty with a certain situation in this one; and I hope it's clear herein who is who, because canon says that Moriarty's younger brother is also named James Moriarty (great). So the paragraphs get a bit convoluted when they're mentioned together. Good luck. ;)

James lay back onto his pillow, arms going behind his head. This was not okay. Most decidedly _not_ okay. If he was honest, it was a complete piss of a fuck up. The detective brought out things in him that were thought buried, abolished, _eliminated_. Though his typical moods were reliably quick-shifting and mercurial, if those could be termed as such, he had always maintained control where it counted. Appearances could be everything, and he had used this intimate knowledge of the human psyche to advance himself through the years since before his first crime was committed. Now, the technique was perfected. Solid. Impenetrable. Other people did the wet work. Not James Moriarty. No. He was a figure in the shadows. Powerful. Omnipotent. So much so that just the shaky utterance of his name alone often capitulated any resistance to the very few trusted allies of his. Fear of his wrath was worldwide. It resided in the most tech savvy of palaces and the most dark and dank of bunkers. The Moriarty name knew no bounds when it came to settling disputes of power. Moriarty's crushed opposition. Ruthlessly. Unmercifully…..and with class! He smiled.

It faded quickly, though, as he considered his dilemma. He brought his arms down from behind his head, fists clenching. He _hated_ him. God, how he _**hated**_ that man. And yet….he wanted him…_needed_ him, like red cells require hemoglobin. Without it, they're nonfunctional. They have no purpose. And likewise….. He shook his head. No. He had been fine before the discovery of this infuriatingly intriguing puzzle of a man. He would be fine…after... He ran a hand through his hair, causing the normally perfectly placed strands to fall haphazardly back down across his brow. Or would he? He drew in an almost unsteady breath, fingers of one hand coming to rest over his mouth for a moment as he considered the question as objectively as he could.

He had been at the edge of giving up when he came across Sherlock's name in the papers. Humanity in general disgusted him. All smiles and good nature until you scratched the surface and the shit bubbled out from inside. No one was exempt from this basic disappointment. Except…perhaps…._him_. He was a puzzle. An enigma to Jim. In a world devoid of color to the criminal's eye, Sherlock Holmes had stood out as a kaleidoscope of brilliantly faceted shades. A confusing riddle held against what he had been beginning to consider the gospel of the mundane. He was interesting. Extraordinary. He was…..a problem. Jim's own problem. And his mind flicked forward in consideration. Perhaps…..his _final_ problem? His eyes narrowed as he lowered his hand to his chest. _This is too much for fully conscious thought_, he considered.

Yes. A deeper evaluation of this situation and its possibilities was merited. He arranged himself on the mattress, pulling the covers off to shuck his trousers to the floor and then drawing them back up in a smooth, coordinated motion. Dress shirt followed next, leaving him in a light tank and his underpants. He writhed around for a moment to find a good position for long term. No telling how long this would take. Sherlock wasn't the only one who utilized the ages old technique of creating a mental construction of massive proportions to enable perfect recall. A Mind Palace it was to Sherlock. To Jim, it was so much more. It was the source of his brilliance. It was his sanctuary in times like this. It was his place to hide inwardly when he was young and still vulnerable... His eyes closed peacefully as he let the outside world fall away, and he entered his safe house.

His eyes opened, and he stood in an open field whereupon an enormous burial mound stood. Like so many of the old, Irish burial sites, it was plain, with little but large rocks bearing some absent-seeming, loopy carvings to decorate its exterior. He looked over it with a mixture of feelings. This part of his mental safe house was actually a replica of a real location. His so-many-times-great grandfather and certain other historic family had been buried therein. He had been there physically only once, as a teenager who was more interested in stealing anything of worth nearby than of his own ancestry. He had gone there on a whim, alone, never being able to define a specific reason as to why. And when he had left after only a short hour, he took the image with him to later use as a foundation to this, his own internal stronghold. And it stood now, as it always had, gloomy and foreboding. Completely unwelcoming, and stinking of the dark whisper of death. He loved it.

Entering the smallish door on the side of the mound, which always shifted according to his position on its exterior, was of no great difficulty. It stood open at all times, as it did now. James could move freely within his own construction, either by mundanely placing one foot in front of the other, by drifting forward as if floating, or simply by recalling the specific information sought after and having himself appear at its location. The last was the method normally employed, due to the general necessity of speed. But tonight, he felt the alien pull of nostalgia, and so he walked slowly up to, and through, the little door, taking a quick flight of carved steps downward from the entrance and disappearing into the darkness below.

Inside could be seen a vast cavern, much larger than the outside trappings of the mound itself could possibly contain. And it wasn't completely dark inside, as one might believe while peering through the doorway from above. It actually seemed to be lit from within, by an unseen source of murky, ashen light. It lent everything the washed out appearance of black and white and gray. In this fortress rested his memories, perfectly preserved in the moments he chose for their mental embalming. But where Sherlock had his vast palace of rooms and storage, Jim's internal construction was similar only in functionality.

The criminal stepped forth into his own kingdom, and breathed deeply. Before him stretched an endless infinity of hallways, passageways, nooks, and crannies. A maze to anyone else's eye; to him, it was as familiar as the streets of his childhood. None were uniform in size, spacing, or shape; each had its own connected pathways through to other locations in this limitless abode, which would often make no sense in regard to space and time. And at irregular intervals along the walls, hung with great care…..were the mirrors. Analogous to the layout of the hallways and tunnels, they were all dissimilar and varied greatly in dimension and placement. And though they bore a resemblance to the silvery-surfaced objects located in the waking world, they did not function as their reflective relatives did. Their faces shifted and swirled, teasing with images half-seen and soon forgotten. Some occasionally displayed scenes caught frozen in the moment, still and unreflective. Others seemed to be nothing more than what they physically appeared: regular mirrors with no ulterior motives or purpose. But the _feel_ of the place... The weight of its silence… The hair-prickling encroachment of the final sleep that hid in every shadow and lay along each path….. That…_that_, was where it could be appreciated and recognized that something truly…_wicked_…dwelt within.

James walked through his Hall of Mirrors at a leisurely pace, knowing his feet would eventually lead him along the path his contemplations required. He kept his thoughts on his "final problem" as he strode the neural corridors. Frustration initially nipped at him, as he was used to a much faster response time to his quests. However, Sherlock Holmes would undoubtedly not be a riddle easily figured, and so he reined in his violence for now. He turned a corner on a whim, catching reflections of himself as he passed that were cloudy, unclear. He stopped at one, wondering at its filmy surface. He could barely make out his own outline, much less any distinguishing features. His hand was extended before he knew it, and he ran a finger down its surface, causing ripple-like waves of smoke within the mirror. Something like a scream sounded from a great distance within, blossoming a feeling of unease within his belly. He backed away slowly from it, turning to continue on. Some memories were better left undisturbed.

His continued tread down the cavernous hallways echoed softly all around him. And still the mirrors he passed reflected only murky grays. So unusual for his thoughts to be so clouded. He walked faster, trying to clear this part of his mind. And as he did, the surfaces began to normalize. Eventually, he was able to see himself again, and he slowed his pace somewhat, passing them at less brief intervals. As he passed one, though, he caught an aberration out of the corner of his eye and stopped, backing up unhurriedly to the mirror in the question. But the only thing staring back at him was his own face, hard and cold in its scrutiny. He moved on, tired of this game his mind seemed intent on playing with him.

With a trick of willpower, he deposited himself farther afield and deeper in his past. The mirrors he passed now were in somewhat of ill repair. Their clouded surfaces gave the impression of dust long untended. Memories, left to lie for years… He approached one in particular, noting the familiar myriad flowing markings traced through its coated surface. And he created yet another one, sliding his hand across the cool glass, as he replayed this memory for what could have been the thousandth time, watching through eyes that had now seen too much darkness to ever truly appreciate the strength to be found within this memory. The mirror brightened at his touch, as if sensing that it was once again to become useful. Hand upon the glass, eyes closed, he sank into it, his ever-living memory.

And his eyes opened on a scene so long ago and far away that no one else living could claim knowledge of its existence. He was young then, _so_ young. And this was the earliest memory in the powers of his mind's recollection. A young James sat alone on a doorstep outside of his family's home, barely two years of age. He stared at the rags that wrapped his feet, numb as they were this winter. His young mind could barely conceive of the idea of seeking out better footwear, not that there was any to be had in any case. Shoes were for 'others,' not him. And so he sat, hunched and shivering on the front stoop of the tiny one-bedroom lean-to that had been constructed by the previous owner, his uncle, before he died. It was barely more than a collection of scrap wood and planks that had been meticulously cobbled together by a (drunken) carpenter. But it kept the worst of the weather out at night. His stomach had long since lost its ability to torment him with hunger, already a known enemy. His diet consisted of this-and-that and what-have-you; but mostly cabbage soup, light on the cabbage and never having seen a string of meat to flavor it. So his days mostly entailed conserving energy by huddling down in any kind of dry space that was available and consuming whatever haphazardly morsels might come his way.

James looked through the mirror on this poor, half-starved creature and felt a certain nausea creep its way into his throat. He could remember a time when he had found a rat, dead for only perhaps a day, and had contemplated eating it. It was almost frozen through, and he was too small at the time to do anything more than try to bite the tail, which had him heaving up the bile residing just beyond his already pitifully empty belly. He steadied himself as he observed, fighting the sickness that always came with his past. It would happen, as it had always happened when he came here, watched this….

The door opened…..and there she was. Mother. Even the now hardened murderer felt his heart lift at the sight of her, this being his only lasting memory of her features, so full of concern. Later memories lent a vague blurring to her countenance that he had never been able to correct. She picked young James up, wrapping her arms securely about him and whispering, "Your Pa's done now. Shhh, he's done. Come inside, Jimmy." James winced at the moniker his mother always used. And he followed the pair inside as they pulled back into the sad dwelling, the last bastion of the end of the Moriarty clan.

His eyes drank her in as she rearranged the single chair, the one piece of furniture besides the sheet-wrapped straw in the corner where his father snored. Soft brown hair with just a hint of auburn, eyes of deep chocolate brown like his own, skin so pale as to be thought sickly but that seemed to glow on her….and the bruising decorating it that he hadn't recognized with eyes so new to the horrors of the world. They speckled her slight frame, so like his own petite figure. The hue of her eyes seemed that much darker with the circles of sleep-deprivation under them, and the variegated coloration blooming across her right cheek gave her an especially frail appearance. _Father was left handed, too_…thought James. She moved with care, as if shying away from pain, as she shifted him from her arms to her lap and sat, still holding him. "Me boy. Me precious, Jimmy," she crooned softly.

He looked up at her, the innocence of youth making him smile and think her the loveliest woman in all of Ireland. And she ran her hand over his head and through his thin hair, testament to his losing battle with malnutrition. She smiled down at him with what his adult eyes could see now as a deep and abiding sadness; and then she hugged him close again, and very tight. He enjoyed the closeness, and didn't register the tremor in her body as she whispered into his hair, "You're going to be a big brother, Jimmy. A big brother…" And she couldn't finish, or else the tears she held back would come forth in full. And he returned her embrace with his skeletal arms, thinking that surely, he was the luckiest boy in all the world.

James pulled out of the memory gasping, drowning. God, why did he do this? But wait…there it was. He could feel it inside himself. This small joy that the memory of his mother's face elicited within him. And he clenched a fist just beneath the endpoint of his breastbone, pressing inwards. The pain…was exquisite. The rage…was addicting. The self-hate…was pure. And the…love…..was loathsome…_was to be crushed_. Annihilated. Ended. There. His eyes blazed with determination that it would be the last time he would come here and feel _this_. This was a mistake of the heart that only led to pain. He had tried, so many times in the past, to shatter this mirror. Destroy this memory, and erase it from himself forever. Its taint, gone. Its influence, broken. And yet…..it never stayed gone. The pieces always found their way back together, reforming and taunting him with their renewed sheen. For a while at least. Until he had let time do its work, and the mirror grew dark and dim once again, surface clouding with mental disuse.

He pushed away from it, swiping his hand across his face as if to clear away all remaining traces of what he had seen, what he had felt. With a final glare in its direction, he headed off again, but stopped once more, peering sideways, as something caught his eye once again. Movement? Not here. But he approached the mirror beside him nonetheless. His eyes squinted as they tried to decipher what lay behind this one, also one of the less used subjects. His hand touched the surface, causing an almost unnoticeable change in its brightness. Not such a good memory then. But curiosity got the better of him, and he let himself submerge for an instant.

The moment he recognized the memory, he became caught in a situation much akin to what people passing an accident on the highway experience: it's so horrible, but they just can't look away. Like-wise were any memories of Jim's brother, also named James. Their father, being the drunk that he was, cared not for the naming of a second child, and so he used the name of the first, stating the rationale that, "Since the first one was such a piss poor Irishman, let the second have a go!"

His first memory of his brother was a lukewarm one as he gazed into the material that served as a crib, swaddling blanket, and diaper all in one. James the younger was a squalling, red-faced, mess of a baby. Big from the start, the newest James had almost killed their mother while giving birth as she had in their single roomed dwelling. A mid-wife had come by to be sure the afterbirth passed (and to generally be a nuisance from what James could tell). But otherwise, his mother had done it all alone, on the floor beside the large kettle they sometimes could find coal for. His father had already taken up the straw pallet and had refused to move when her contractions started. She had told James to go sit outside on the stoop and only come in if he couldn't take the weather any more. And so he had sat outside and listened to his mother's screams and whimpers as she fought to bring his brother into the world.

He stepped back from the mirror, face tight with concentration as he fought the almost masochistic desire to keep watching. He looked to its frame, seeking some identifying mark so as not to seek this one out ever again. He could still feel the wind on his exposed face, feel his mother's screams within his marrow, sense the beginning of a hatred that would blossom in the years to come. He took another few steps backwards to distance himself from the thing, and his back hit something. What? He spun, seeing the mirror behind him. When had the hallway gotten so narrow? Its surface shimmered, holding his gaze, and he looked as if through a window.

The youth's mostly bare feet slapped the rough cobbles as he and Tommy Connemarah raced through the back alleys ahead of the vendor they had just stolen a meat pie from. The twists and turns of the backstreets were taken with the easy knowledge of youth and all of its inexhaustible speed. Their breathing was labored when they finally stopped at an old, dried up ditch on the edge of the city. A tumble-down stone wall ran along one side of it, but most of the masonry had rolled down into the ditch itself over the years. He was still young, but into his mid-teens now. James was quite short for his age, and scrawny yet. The years of malnourishment and hard living had done permanent damage to his physical development. Yet that was one of the last things on his mind this clear day as he and his friend leaned against the crumbling wall and began to laugh until tears sprang forth, both taking turns pantomiming the purple-faced food vendor. And Jim looked upon himself as a much different person. Then. _Just before_. He shook his head, watching as the two boys shared the pie, and pretending even still not to notice that Tommy barely took a sharing of it at all, dividing it in such a way that Jim would never know of his generosity. He examined his younger self, seeming so easy with another human being. Though Tommy was no genius to rival, or even entertain, his own brilliance, still the other boy was steadfastly loyal in his friendship. Something James had never experienced before meeting him in what passed for their public school four years ago.

Every child was supposed to attend classes to learn the usual primary school lesson plans. And truly, learning to read, write, and do sums could often mean the difference between a hard labor job and one of "softer" duties once a child came of age to begin working. However, for those of the much poorer classes, these sessions caused an interruption in the living-day-to-day-and-hand-to-mouth standard. While in class, James couldn't forage for the meager supplementations to his diet that he had become accustomed to by age five. And during the winter, whilst occupied in this same manner, it removed time from his limited daylight hours that could be used searching for fallen coal from the wagons that he could bring to his mother and make her smile. She smiled so little any more…..and so, it was important.

His young mind flew forward of the instructors anyway, and he read ahead on his own, often borrowing books from them far past his own age group. They generally tolerated it as long as he didn't make trouble. But they also didn't help him either, leaving it to _him_ to be the one to request more advanced studies. He had only been attending classes for a little over a year before he began to leave early. His readings and such were always completed, though, so the instructors figured it was one less head to watch. It was on one of his early leavings that he ran into Tommy, who was sneaking out by pretending to go to the boys' room for a break.

They had sensed an immediate kinship between them. James in need of any kind of positive human interaction, and Tommy who was desperately in need of a compass, a guiding star. And he found it in Jim, who was only too happy to have finally gained an appreciative audience for his schemes and grand ideas of the future. They worked well together, too, Jim devising routines that they ran in order to con or steal desired prizes from the unwary. And sometimes…from the _wary_ as well! And so it proceeded, with Jim as the mastermind and Tommy following, ever loyal and ever ready to leap into even the most desperate of heists that their teenage minds could conceive of.

The memories swept over James softly, but with a strong undertow. _That was the last day_, he realized as he watched the youths banter back and forth. _I was a killer everafter, and not fit company for a companion of such lightheartedness, such loyalty, such…..weakness, _he reminded himself. His hands gripped the frame of the mirror, as if trying to pull it from the wall. Arms shook with the effort as he strained against his own mind, but it never budged. He slapped the surface with his hand, fingers splaying out, willing the images away, knowing that the only thing that happiness had ever brought him was an even greater evil. But instead of dissipating as it should, the image simply shivered and changed, dashing forward in time, and James' heart thudded once, hard, in his chest at the image revealed to him.

He turned from the mirror, unable to view the moment that had ended the only friendship he had ever had. Tommy would never understand. And he would never know either, for Jim would never tell him. He couldn't. James had left his birth city the next night, never again looking upon Thomas Connemarah…except in these, his memories. But he had _had_ to leave after what he had done. There would be questions…and he could never explain how he had gone from thieving foodstuff to…..killing. Not to anyone. Especially not to…Tommy.

Lost in his thoughts, he missed when all of the mirrors throughout this section of hallway shifted, moved, and picked up where the other had been. And James swung his eyes to and fro, wary now of his own mental processes. He had come here for answers as to why he was so vulnerable where Sherlock was concerned, and it seemed his mind was looking to take him in its own direction, whether or not his conscious thoughts believed it relevant. He sighed and braced his hands on his hips, feet apart for balance and stability. He could feel it, the pull of this memory. This, his fall into darkness. One would think that such a man as he would actually revel in his ethical devolvement, and perhaps revisit this moment often. But James Moriarty was a man of immeasurable facets, ever shifting, ever evolving. And one would shortly be dead if they were to ever try to reliably predict the criminal's intentions. His motivations, were there any at all beyond his cultured and polite insanity…were incomprehensible.

The first person to enter the view afforded by the mirror was James II. And Jim eyed his brother through the cold surface as one would a snake. A snake that urgently needed decapitating. His brother had turned out to be a stark contrast to his own pathetic physique. Following his father's genetic phenotype, James II grew tall and thick. At 13, he matched many 16 and 17 year olds for brawn. None matched him for sheer cruelty, though. The boy was violent, easily enraged, and extremely jealous of his older brother's intelligence. But while he hadn't developed a genius to rival his older sibling, he had an unnatural cunning that served him well on the streets.

Their father had actually taken to James II, most likely owing to the fact that the younger son was more the kind of male specimen that fathers often wished for in their male offspring. He was large, athletic, and looked eerily much like his older brother (had Jim been afforded the same basic nutritional amenities when he was smaller). And so he was handsome, too, but in a much more masculine manner than Jim, who was fairer and slight by comparison. A fact that had led their father to find "other" methods of occupying a young boy's body when he was in his elementary years.

James II strode into the corner alley where Jim and Tommy had often run seeking cover at the ends of their days spent at thievery. It was a difficult place to navigate to in the winding paths through the poorer sections of town, with many of the "streets" lying under rubble from tumble-down houses and buildings lost to disrepair. Jim leapt to his feet from the crate he sat upon at the sight of the brute approaching him. His heart pounded in his chest. His brother never came under any innocent reasons, and most of their meetings ended with spilt blood. Mostly Jim's. His side still ached from where James had kicked him in the kidney the other day, and his urine was still pink-tinged, but at least it wasn't blood anymore.

The not-so-much-older "present" criminal watched from the outside as if through a looking glass as his younger self gathered courage to stand before this cretin, this waste of flesh. James II already had an entourage of what might have been simple ne'r-do-wells; but under his influence, they were much more dangerous than that, more pack-minded. And shortly, behind the younger Moriarty sibling, they filed through and spread out, seven of them. Two held another boy captive, a rough sack upended over his head and tied at the throat; he must've been gagged too, from the muffled speech that erupted as little more than noise from beneath the head-covering. James II glanced at the restrained boy, then grinned back at his older, yet smaller, sibling. The Jim from the other side of the mirror felt something twist inside himself. He remembered that smile all too well, and saw it repeated often in his dreams, his nightmares.

James II continued smiling at his brother as he swept a hand back through his hair, a slightly more reddish hue than Jim's. He always allowed it to grow long and wild, not caring for styles or convention. The effect gave his already large frame an even more bestial quality. Eyes of an altogether darker shade of brown regarded the wary stance of Jim across from him. Where Jim's were a warm chocolate, James' were dark enough that one often couldn't delineate between iris and pupil, giving him a dead look that had many women, aye and men, too, moving to the other side of the street when he approached. Those eyes were now locked on Jim.

"Jimmy," he drawled out, "Brother. It took so long to find you," he stated, as if genuinely concerned; the depth of a bottomless loch seemed contained in his already mature voice. And he kept a thicker, more "street" accent than Jim, who "betrayed his roots" in utilizing the softer, more cultured tones of the educated upper class. The smaller brother shifted, unable to tell if the impending violence was to be aimed at himself or elsewhere until James continued.

"I brought a present…o' sorts," he gestured at the now not-so-struggling person. "This here, is part o' that group as comes by to _see_ Ma…" he trailed off, letting Jim reach the conclusion on his own. This was one of the teenagers who tagged along with the laborers, performing menial tasks for them to pick up enough coin to use for whoring (an occupation that had fallen solely to Jim's mother after he became too old to interest their clients any more). What was most sickening was knowing that people his own age were coming around her. It enraged him past reason at times. And if they shared nothing else in this world, both brothers loved their mother with a fierceness that rivaled the sun. Jim felt himself grow both hot and cold at his brother's words, and James II saw the effect this knowledge had on his sibling. Here, at their mercy, was one of "them." Jim's eyes flew to meet James' own when the younger, brutish boy spoke a third time.

"Here," he flicked a long blade down between the stones at Jim's feet. "Do 'im. 'Bout time you showed some loyalty to the fam'ly anyways." And he laughed as Jim clumsily palmed the knife and studied it. His anger bled out at the touch of steel in his palm. He was intelligent; he was stealthy; he was quick. But all of his weapons thus far in his life had been more based in intelligence and guile. This…this was something else entirely. The taking of a life could not be unwritten; could not be forgotten; could not be taken back. The blade felt heavy, so heavy in his hand as he slowly approached the form held tight between the two larger boys his own age. The weapon was too large for his small hand, so he held it in both. And he stopped just before the quivering form, who surely must have heard their conversation. He must have been beaten pretty badly prior to being brought here to only struggle so feebly now.

He stared for a long time at the body before him. He knew from anatomy texts wherein lay the major life-sustaining organs. But he had no experience, no practical idea as to how to go about this. And James was watching. One of the boys holding the prisoner tightened his grip suddenly and shifted to secure the head with one hand, grasping the sack covering it tightly, and presumably hair with it. Jim looked to the chest, feeling he could sense the life beating within it. He was so angry. It was his _mother_! But…was he a killer? Could he do…this? Living among the streets, he was certainly no stranger to death. But then, he had never been the cause of it. He couldn't think straight, and his hand was about to visibly shake, when suddenly his brother was there, steadying his hands.

"'Ere. Let me help," the younger said; and carefully, James came in beside Jim, setting his hands over his smaller sibling's. He maneuvered the blade between their hands so that they both held it double handed. And then Jim felt James bring their hands and the point in line, touching the tip just below the sternum. This set off a wild series of jerks and pitiful almost-screams from the boy before them. Jim's heart thudded hard, adrenaline making him a bit nauseated as he watched the "guards" subdue the captive once more, and his brother positioned their hands yet again. The boy's chest quivered, betraying his silent sobbing. _But he __**slept**__ with Ma_, Jim rationalized. _My mother!_ _He __**fucked**__ her_, he sought to channel the anger he had felt initially. And it returned, quickly, burning up through his chest and into his extremities. His lip curled up and his teeth ground together. Eyes became like flint as he steeled himself and heard his brother whisper.

"Go on, Jimmy. I'll help aim, but you push. Do it, brother."

And Jim thrust, quickly, but not quite deep enough, a last-second hesitation causing the faltering of his follow-through. But James closed his hands tighter around his brother's and pushed harder, completing the angle and driving into the heart. Jim stared down at their joined hands, blood flowing like water over them and down to their feet. _Warm, it's so warm_, Jim thought to himself as he watched the blood pool beneath the body that was now held up by only the two boys on either side.

James let go of Jim's hands and lazily walked around beside the now dead boy hanging between the other two captors. He held his hands out, staring at them as if they merely had gotten dirty, then looked for something to clean them on. Jim continued holding the blade, feeling the stickiness of the blood against his skin as he watched his brother reach up and grab the sack cloth over the head to rub his hands on. He pulled it off and proceeded to wipe himself down…..and Tommy's head lolled forward, the spirit within it having fled from this world just moments before.

Jim's eyes raced to meet James' own just as a smile as friendly as the River Styx found its home upon the younger man's lips. And his eyes, those dead eyes, looked on Jim with the weight of infinite space. Time stopped. Gravity reversed. Breathing ended. Life ceased. Jim screamed.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Once again you all are to be indebted to Revella for approving the posting of this chapter. She bled her eyes out so you wouldn't have to suffer anything extra stupid or horrible. LOL! Rape contained within this chapter. Beware.

His voice seemed to carry the weight of the heavens behind it as it passed through his lips and erupted in the universally translated sound of an animal wounded unto death. An older Jim watched from without the mirror as the screaming continued, even when his brother knocked him down. And then when his brother beat him brutally, savagely, upon a ground already covered in dirt and sweat and blood, still he cried out. Even after those other boys pulled James off of him….. It was a surprising reprieve that soon enough revealed itself for the evil that lay behind their intentions…as even _then_, he continued to scream in denial and loss as they began to grope at him, push him, tear at his clothes. And his brother stood to the side, smiling as the boys raped Jim upon the cold, unyielding stones. There was no stopping them, he was too small, too weak. And so they took him, over and over, until Jim's blood ran through with Tommy's, and his voice quieted. Yet _even then_, he continued to cry out for his friend…his only, and last, friend…as his face was ground into the dirt and rock of the alley. One jagged stone actually cut a place deep enough high on his forehead to leave a scar. To mark him. Permanently.

Jim stepped back from the mirror, a hand raising to touch the scar, so slight now as to be almost no more than just a small slash of skin that was lighter even than the rest of his pale features. And then, with great care and surprise, he moved the hand from his forehead, to his cheek. And he felt the wetness thereon, pulling his fingers away and staring at it in complete, devastated shock. For one swift moment, James (Jim) Moriarty stood revealed from his carefully constructed armor and façade, the shell falling away to reveal his inner despair and horrified sadness, the likes of which only the truly insane can ever experience…his magnificent madness spun down to its core. And then, he stopped. Stopped watching. Stopped listening. And, just as he had the day after this brutal savagery was visited upon his young body, he stopped caring. Stopped feeling. Stopped…everything. The scene of gross and hedonistic abuse that played on in the surrounding mirrors halted in place, the blood that ran from his young body frozen as if in winter. Everything remained sharply in focus, so much so that Jim could differentiate between the sweat and tears that fell from the younger face pressed roughly to the ground.

His aspect then became a thing terrible to behold as he looked upon the form of his brother, standing off to the side, watching, smiling. Eyes of chocolate brown turned dark as pitch, and his compact frame became rigid with the intensity of the hate he radiated. The largest mirror before him began to quiver as he stared. A vein stood out a bit on his forehead as he focused his rage, his madness, upon the offending object before him. And then, just like _that_, he let it all fall away and closed his eyes. And keeping them closed, he shrugged his shoulders and did a quick loosening-of-the-body type shuffle and shake-off. He tilted his head from side to side as if to pop the vertebra contained within. And the left side of his mouth slowly edged its way upward in what could be deemed a smile, a snarl, and a sneer all in one. And he opened his eyes again at last.

The mirror rebounded backwards against the wall as the weight of his gaze made contact, the bottom corner of it cracked deeply, and frost bloomed from within the revealed gap. It was quiet for a few seconds after. Then, more slices spread throughout its silvery surface, all with an undertone of wintry frost behind them. The sparkling slivers all converged on the center of the great mirror as he watched. And when they met, suddenly, all activity across the mirror's face ceased. Jim practically _strolled_ up to the mirror, quite in keeping with the word 'nonchalant.' And he stroked a hand down his chin slowly as if deep in thought when he paused a mere two feet from the object. His hand dropped to his side, and he took a deep, calming breath, lastly blowing a strawberry at the scene displayed within its reflective depths, before he pulled back the other arm and smashed his fist straight through it, finishing what the inner frosted decay had started. Glittering shards tumbled to the ground around his feet. He looked down on them in disinterest, and then stepped on the largest pile, grinding it further into the floor as he pivoted on it and began walking away. He whistled an old children's tune as he rounded a corner just a short ways down from the destruction he had just caused and disappeared into another section of his Hall.

But the past is never so easy to escape, even within the confines of one's own mind. And as he searched out his answer in this different section, he found himself once again coming upon flashes of that same dreadful day. And finally, with an exaggerated expulsion of wind from his lungs, and a dramatic roll of his eyes, he stepped up to one large, body-length mirror, tucked a leg behind himself, and sat upon the floor, his keen mind sifting through the possibilities that these scenes of his past held. And before him, the past was recreated, and lived again.

The bloodied young boy named Jim lay unconscious in that back corner alley for hours. The sun was going down when he finally cracked open bloodshot eyes, one of which was swollen mostly shut. His throat rasped when he sucked in air, painful as razor blades as it flowed down his trachea. He rolled onto his back, causing all manner of hell on earth within his defeated frame, and he took stock of his injuries. After a cursory moving of all of his extremities, he found himself considering his luck at no as-yet-detected fractures. He had taken worse from James alone in the past, not to mention their shared father. And though his 'backside' _was_ painful, tender, and likely to cause him to limp for a few days, he concluded that the blood had probably served as an adequate enough lubricant to prevent further, er, frictional damage. So all in all, not as bad as one might have figured from all the blood present.

Of course, it wasn't all _his_ blood, though…..and his hands began to shake as he remembered. All of it. The hot wetness of his friend's life flowing out over his fingers. The tiny, perhaps imagined, thrum and vibration along the blade that he took to be the heart in its last convulsions of attempted existence. The lifeless tipping forward of Tommy's head as the sack was finally removed. He lay there trembling for some time as the sun sank ever lower before finally deciding to get up. And the pain elicited from his left side told him that maybe he had been wrong about the whole no-broken-bones thing. He placed a hand over the area as he stood. Fingertips traced the outline of his ribcage, and…there! Oh! Don't do _that_ again! Yes, definitely a few fractures there, though they didn't seem to be displaced, so he should be fine to walk. There was no sign of Tommy's body anywhere, and he so he chose to go to the only place he could think of: home.

When he reached the street whereon rested their pitiful shack, he calmed himself once more before approaching fully. He didn't want to frighten his mother any more than she already would be. But as he limped slowly to the door, he noticed an 'off' feel to the place. The door was cracked, and he heard banging and a grunt from within. He staggered up the steps, heart jumping into his throat as he opened the door and found a vision that would haunt him into his adulthood.

The scene in the mirror paused into still life as an older Jim stood up from his seated position on the floor and approached. He passed through the mirror's surface easily as smoke, and suddenly stood within the doorway of the sad little dwelling. His younger self stood frozen behind him, beholding the macabre tableau that he had entered to see closer. Two figures in the darker back half of the abode were standing locked together as if wrestling. The single chair lay broken to bits across the dirt floor, and other pieces of crockery and housewares lay scattered about as well. Only two candles and the last particles of daylight lit the room, making these things somewhat difficult to decipher. But his eyes were for one thing only.

His mother lay tumbled down on her back, turned slightly on her side. Her skin, always so pale, was now even more so. Legs were splayed as if she had been in flight, and her arms were flung out, with one obviously broken from its odd angle. Jim crouched down beside her, reaching out to touch her face lightly, but drawing his hand back at the last second and clenching it into a fist. Her eyes, those brown eyes that he inherited, were open and staring into a place where he could not follow. Her face seemed blurred to his memory here, with only her eyes remaining clear. The bruising on her neck gave the conclusive evidence of the cause of her death. And he traced those finger marks with his eyes. Then, he blinked.

The figure of himself in the doorway stumbled in and stopped, the horror of what lay before him too much. And the figures of his father and brother fighting in the back resumed their battle as Jim sat crouched among his memories. He watched as his brother yelled curses at their father, accusatory and condemning. And he also watched, with not just a small amount of satisfaction, as his brother finally managed to grab a hand sickle from the corner, twist the older man around so that his back faced James, and eviscerated their father from behind.

The man's body dropped like a wet sack, as did the sickle from James' hand. A few gurgling sounds issued forth from the dying man before silence reigned in the Moriarty household. The younger sibling looked across the room at Jim, who was still standing in shock by their mother's body. The sudden shift in James' attention, though, caught Jim's eye and put him on alert. James was wounded, he noted, as the other boy slowly lowered himself to the floor. Jim felt himself going cold all over. Tommy: dead. Mother: dead. Father: dead. All in one day. And all linked in some way to one individual, who was currently staring across a candlelit room at him curiously. Jim took a step back, and his brother grunted in what might have been a laugh.

"What? No help for me?" An arm waved in dismissal. "No, not from you. Go ahead then, Jimmy. Run."

And at the sound of James' voice, Jim was shot through with a multitude of emotions, paralyzing his mind momentarily and making it hard to breath. His pulse, already racing from depleted blood reserves he had left in the alleyway, sped up even more. He took another step back and made sure the door was still open behind him with a glance to his rear. His brother's voice continued.

"I'll come for you. One day. And I'll own these streets." A short laugh at his own commentary. "And you'll owe me allegiance. Cuz I'm your brother, Jimmy. Your blood." He chuckled darkly, "And you can't run from blood."

But Jim did. He stumbled out of the doorway and into the waiting arms of the now freshly descended night. His brother's laughter followed him upon the cool air. His eyes swung back and forth. Where to go? Then his mind caught up with him. What does it matter? And he limped off quickly into the gloom, never to return to his hometown. Jim watched all of this impassively as his younger self had retreated through the door. The scene inside the home froze once his past self's viewpoint was removed; and he stood. He gave one last look at his mother's eyes, and then turned to leave the memory, stepping from the mirror with a face now cold as glacial bedrock. No more tears.

He remembered running, haphazardly, to the edge of town. He also remembered how oddly out of breath he had been just before he passed out. And when he had woken again, he found himself in a dry cellar beneath a middle class home. A small girl saw him wake and squealed before running off. Soon after, an older man came in to check on him, bringing water and bread, which he consumed greedily. He thanked the man hastily afterwards, but refused to say anything about the state he was in, seeking only further escape from his brother's reach. And so it wasn't too much later that he set out from the home. But he did so with a pair of used boots that the man had been going to throw out. They were a size too big, but as they were the first real pair of footwear Jimmy had ever owned, he didn't care. He also left with a few trinkets nicked from the house itself, figuring he could sell them off when he got to wherever he was going. He had heard that if you were smart, if you were clever, you could make something of yourself in the underground of England. Perhaps that would be far enough from Ireland? If not, then America for sure. And so it had been that James Moriarty had arrived a few weeks later at the edge of a new country, wearing borrowed boots, a stolen hat, and clothed in a mismatch of fabrics that told anyone who looked exactly what kind of a station he was born from.

Jim walked away from the mirror, away from his shame, away from his childhood. He would seek out other memories to peruse, safer ones, ones that didn't make him feel the need to kill…now. It seemed Sherlock had contaminated even his Hall, his own mind, going by how little information he seemed to be gathering from his internal examinations. So he set off to an area his mind had yet to suggest, figuring to disturb its pattern and gain answers in a different manner. Anger followed him like a plague as he passed mirror after mirror, each one seeming to look more and more like the rest. Yes, they were, he finally acknowledged as he passed yet another odd-shaped one. They were almost like…very large tombstones. That was it. _How decidedly…__**me**_, he thought to himself. And as he was thinking, something moved out of sync with him in these depths of murk. _What? _He spun towards it…..but nothing was there. Only reflections of his own malice greeted him along the walls, and so he turned and continued on.

But it happened again as he walked through yet another corridor, this one with walls low enough that he could easily jump and see over to the next hallway in his maze. A flash of _something_ where his reflection should been. It seemed to happen every few mirrors. But it was there and gone too quickly for identifying. And so he slowed his pace, counting the mirrors to his left.

1…..

2…..

3…..

4…..

There it was! He almost fell forward when he tried to stop, but pulled up short at the shock of what he believed he had just seen. The mirror was empty now, though, save for his own form. He turned and began walking again, a bit faster now, heart pounding in his chest as he did. A fear thought long forgotten was rising within him. He had left that insanity, that uncontrollable madness, behind him in his early 20's, conquering it as he had conquered England's criminal networks, and then farther… His self-hatred, powerful intelligence, and awe-inspiring determination to never be a victim again propelled him higher than his brother would ever be able to climb. He was safe, he believed. And none would ever get close to him again, touch him, bring him weakness. He had found soon after his escape from Ireland that he could no longer abide the touch of another human being. It made his skin crawl, made him nauseated, made him…dangerous. And those beneath him learned this, or they disappeared. And the only evidence left of the disastrous mental instability he had suffered were his ever-shifting, intemperate, and unpredictable moods.

_Shit!_ There it was again. He spun, but still he missed it. Sure now that he had been brought into contact with his long ago madness, he began to think that it was perhaps time to leave and then regroup for a later excursion. Yet still he walked on, unconsciously counting the mirrors as he passed. And when he came to the fifth mirror this time, he pivoted to a stop before it; and truly, the look of surprise written across his features would have surely pleased the sensibilities of the consulting detective…..who stared back at him with the same expression of utter disbelief.

Jim raised his hand and watched as his Sherlock-reflection performed an identical action. He waved it around, watching with growing worry as his "reflection" did it, too. He shook his head, but then became uncomfortable as the detective synced with him. He stepped back and then turned, walking quickly on and trying not to glance in the mirrors to either side of himself. Yes, it was time to go. Surely _here_ he had reached an edge of his madness as yet unexplored, and he wanted it to remain that way. But no matter how he tried not to look, to glance, to peek, his peripheral vision still caught bits as he went along. And he registered them semi-consciously as he went by, noting every time the reflection changed.

_Jim…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Sherlock…Jim…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sher…_ "**Gaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!**" His voice carried through the passageways as he turned on the last mirror he had passed.

He stared into the detective's (his) angry and scowling countenance, approaching so that they were right in front of each other, each man an echo of the other. Eye to eye, they stared, only a small part of Jim recognizing that he was still merely battling himself at this point. Two men, of seemingly equal intelligence and potential, arising from different classes yet from strikingly similar emotional circumstances..…far apart…yet, oh, _so_ close. And in the distance…in some small portion of Jim's subconscious…a voice whispered a question. It was soft, barely noticed, and innocently offered, but powerful in its implications: _What is our difference?_ Jim's eyes, and his counterpart's, narrowed dangerously. He turned the question over and over in his mind, seeking a solution as much by feeling as by logic at this point. It was intuition, and a knowing of one's self, that brought him solutions. He found it. And he answered the question…with violence. The heel of his hand crashed into the mirror and shattered it in glittering shards that soon littered the ground at his feet, as broken as the criminal's soul. _That…felt good…very good_, he thought as he appreciated the mess he had made. Until he noticed that now there were literally hundreds of mimicry Sherlock's observing him in turn from their new tiny vantage points.

Disgusted, he moved on, noting that the mirrors he passed now had nothing within them but swirling gray. Good. He aimed for a more central location so he could focus and leave his Hall on his own terms rather than abruptly, which always left him feeling ill. And behind him, unnoticed, the gray swirled and churned, first slowly and then picking up intensity. And behind his exiting form, silvery mist poured forth from the mirrors and flowed sinuously after his steps.

He noticed it as a feeling a first, whirling to face the thing that caused the fine hairs at the base of his skull to raise. And he watched as the mist curled its path around the entryway to the chamber he was passing through. Rather large, and lined with mirrors barely feet apart on all sides, it also had several exits…unfortunately, every one of these was also spewing forth the creeping mist. And so he positioned himself in the center of the room…and waited. It would start soon, and he closed his eyes to wait for it. It didn't take long. As the first tendril of silver caressed the leg of his trousers, he heard it. His brother.

"Hi, Jimmy."

"Go. Away," he said through gritted teeth.

"Why? We're brothers, Jimmy. Blood. We can never be separated."

"I've done it once before."

"So you think."

"I know…"

"I'll come for you."

"No."

"One day."

"No!" His anger, and not a small bit of fear, was rising.

"Cuz I'm your brother, Jimmy."

"I will kill you! Destroy you!" He began to feel the helplessness, the weakness.

"Your blood."

"You will never find me. And I will strangle you with your own intestines; you will vomit up your lungs, and I will sow them full of salt!" he screamed back at the voice.

"And you can't run from blood."

"You cannot reach me, hurt me, any more James. I am better than you, now. Stronger. And I will end you."

There was a pause in their exchange, as if the owner of the voice was actually contemplating Jim's threatening words. And then a sighing, soft chuckle issued forth, followed by words…and crippling pain that shot all through Jim's body. And the worst part, almost lost on him in his red haze of ripping pain, was that it was _his own_ voice, pitched high and mocking, following him down to the floor where the mist surrounded and engulfed him.

"No you won't!"

He woke sitting straight up in bed, one leg slung over the side as if about to leave. Breath heaved in his lungs, and once again, he was covered in sweat. But of a much different kind this time. Cold and sickening, it clung to him as if a disease. His hand rested beneath his pillow, grasping his Beretta 92FS. He pulled it from beneath its shelter, looking at it questioningly. And then he whipped it towards his wardrobe as he heard it. A whisper.

"Jimmy." A pause. "Hey there little brother. Did you miss me?"

Jim's breathing picked up tempo again as he realized that the voice was coming from within his own head. As with all those years ago, it was independent of his own thoughts and completely random and uncontrollable. And…maddening.

"What's that you've got there, Jimmy? Beretta? Niiiiiice. Why don't we go target shooting, you and me, and….Sherlock?"

"Shut. Up!" Jim yelled, screwing his eyes closed and placing hands on his head as if he could shake the presence from his skull.

"Oh no, I won't be going anywhere. Nope. Not until you've solved your little problem."

"What?" Jim's eyes flew open, wildly searching for what could never be seen.

"Oh yes, Jimmy. I live in here, remember? You've got a problem…and I've got the solution."

"No. You're _not_ here. You're dead to me. _Dead_!"

"It's simple, Jimmy….. Kill. Him."

"No. No, I will kill him when _I_ am ready. When _I_ choose. I have planned this for _years_, and _you_ won't be the one to ruin it for me!" He swiped his hand to the side, gesturing in negation.

"Oh, I think differently. Just think about it, Jimmy. All you need to do to get rid of me is…kill him."

"Aaaggghhh!" Jim screamed in sheer frustration.

"Kill him."

"No!"

"Kill him. _Kill_ him! He must die; he must. Otherwise, you are weak again, Jimmy. You. Are. _Nothing_. So kill him. Kill him."

The voice rose and fell in his head, as real as if the owner were standing before him. And with each syllable, each hate filled suggestion, Moriarty could feel himself reverting, becoming more and more open to the proposition. As he had been one other time in his life, when he had nothing to lose. The years he fought against it had been some of the worst of his life. A constant inner struggle that left him strung out, sleepless, and nearly incoherent at times. But the fear of him by that time kept others from acting against him. Now…now, he was unprepared for this sudden assault of his senses and sanity. Over and over his brother's voice bid him to commit murder. And why shouldn't he, he began asking himself. It's not like he ever had any qualms over it in the past. _But this is Sherlock_, he thought against himself. _Sherlock, whom I've planned for so long to..…_ _No_. He groaned aloud and fell sideways across the bed as if to grapple with himself. The voice kept on, growing in force, its volume nearly drowning out everything else, barring the very forefront of Jim's thoughts. He felt himself retch, once, twice. He rolled to the right and vomited over the side of his bed, face pale and sickly, sweat continuing to pour from him as though in a fever.

Still, the voice kept on. His every thought and action became an echo of those words. _Kill him. Kill Sherlock. You are weakened by him. You are nothing. Kill him_. He could feel it, the dizzily sickening clarity of the hate filled psychosis he was being wrapped in. And he started to believe…he started to listen… _Yes. Yes. Kill him. He should die. He should. By my hand alone. My hand. And then…and then…myself…_ He smiled, and his brother's voice continued pounding through his skull, making it difficult to find his balance when he finally stood. His hand tightened on the Beretta, feeling the security of the chrome finish beneath his fingers.

His door banged open suddenly, and in flooded three of his men who, upon finding their leader standing with a gun in hand and looking as though he was a victim of some deadly internal parasite, ground to a halt. They milled about each other, all seeking shelter from the eyes that seemed to burn from within their pale setting. Finally, one stepped forward to say something that sounded like it might have begun as, "Boss, we thought you were being…" but it was cut off by the bullet that ripped through his throat. He had barely seen the raising and subsequent firing of the gun that had ended him. Yes, James had learned a few things on the streets long ago. His gaze locked onto the remaining two.

"Where. Is. He?" And when they hesitated, he shot another round into the ceiling. "_WHERE_?!"

They needn't ask who "he" was; they merely indicated behind themselves and down the hall, with one muttering something like, "Still in the study." And Jim swept past them in nothing but his pants; it was a testament to his power and capacity for cruelty that, clad thusly, he still caused urine to pool beneath the feet of one of the men he passed. He moved through the long corridors toward his goal, still accompanied by his brother's screams and intending to put an end to them with the only option presented to him: Kill. Sherlock.

He came upon the study doors, and the screaming inside him staggered his steps as it surged in reaction to the proximity of his quarry. He grunted through the pain, bending forward for a moment, and then straightening upright once again to push roughly through the doors. And what greeted him inside did not surprise him. It did not make him question his sanity, his motivations, or his choices. It did not change anything really. No solutions or further clarifications made themselves known to him. No. The scene did not offer anything of the sort. But when his eyes traced the familiar environment, and then found themselves alighting upon the form of Sherlock Holmes…..his brother's voice, and all of its accompanying emotions, pain, and strife…..ceased to exist. All was quiet. All was empty. And it took the breath from him, _hard_. He stood in totally stunned silence, with the detective appearing as yet unaware of his presence. He thought it ironic that though he had been unable to _think_ within his brother's constant loud stream of hatred and venom, now he _still_ could find no focus within the newly developed hush that came afterwards. It was destabilizing. Like going from a room of 43 degrees Celsius to another of 6 degrees. It robbed one of all action and intent. _Words cannot capture the meaning of this_, he thought. _Language is a poor communicator for things of this magnitude_. He ran a hand back through his sweat dampened hair as he looked on.

Sherlock sat in the open center of the floor with what appeared to be Jim's laptop across his legs. Jacket top had been dismissed to cover the coffee table, and his shoes and socks seemed to be missing in action as well, bare feet were set wide apart with toes partially curled into the thick area rug he sat upon. Jim glanced at the computer desk. Yep. _His_ laptop. Sherlock Holmes…had _his_…laptop. He took a deep breath within the fragile mental silence he was currently enjoying, and stepped up behind the detective. He looked down over the other man's shoulder and almost laughed aloud, noting the game of Pong Sherlock currently was engaged in. Of course. Because Sherlock Holmes wouldn't show off his breaking into a criminal mastermind's computer by perusing the files and whatnot contained within, possibly deleting and/or moving things around. Oh no. He'd crack the passcode and play Pong.

James felt all of the stress, anger, and hurt fall away from him. It sank through his limbs and leaked out through the floorboards. It drained him in a way that encompassed the mental, the physical, and the spiritual. And he slowly sank to the carpet along with everything else that was leaving his body. He landed right behind the detective. And after a single moment's hesitation, he scooted up behind the taller man, a leg to either side of the detective's own, and snaked his arms about the slender waist, clasping his wrists to hold on. His chin came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, and he closed his eyes at the peace he felt while thus engaged. They sat together like that for perhaps an hour before Jim finally whispered something, breaking the repetitive tapping of the keys.

"You will die…when _I_ say. Sherlock." The detective paused his game. He leaned his head back a bit and angled his face so that he got a partial profile of the man wrapped so closely about him. He took in the wan complexion, the shirtless torso, and the eyes… He quirked an eyebrow and stared into the depths of quieted madness contained therein, feeling an echo of it within his own soul; and then he turned his head back to his progressively faster keyboard tappings, saying only one thing.

"Yes, alright."


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: I thank everyone who's hung in there with me for this, and you all get many many unicorn kisses for your strife. Revella has just approved this chapter for human eyes, so you may feast away on all the glorious hilarity with a teensy amount of angst thrown in.

John had waited. He had brooded. He had searched. He had combed the flat bare for evidence…of _anything_. He had met with Lestrade, and Mycroft, numerous times. He had worried himself into a deep sickness. He had screamed, railed…and cried, bitterly. Brokenly. He had sat with his laptop open, his blog pulled up, staring into the screen as if his previously catalogued adventures with Sherlock could work a kind of magic upon his soul. He had taken his gun out…often…staring at it with an unanswerable question in his eyes, his heart. But he always put it back. His hate for the man, Jim Moriarty, feeding him the will to close the drawer by his desk every night when he checked and rechecked it for function. He had become almost obsessive about…many things. And those who noticed, stayed clear. Lestrade knew in his heart that if they ever had the misfortune of capturing Moriarty alive that the problem would be solved by sixty seconds of being left in the vicinity of Captain John H. Watson. Not that he would ever consent to such a thing, the DI had to tell himself often.

Mrs. Hudson had made herself scarce around him lately. Everyone had. He was like a piece of strong, thin wire, pulled to the event horizon of his existence, mere moments away from snapping. No going back. His clinic work was nonexistent now, and Mycroft had surreptitiously picked up the flat's expenses. John pretended not to notice, and Mycroft pretended not to notice John not noticing. John was far too angry, uncivil, and raw at this point to function in the civilian world, the elder Homes had concluded. And so he took steps to help ensure that a modicum of stability was maintained amongst the doctor's newly evolved, almost-bipolar, personality. Today was no deviation from the newly established norm.

John got up, showered, ate, checked his laptop for any emails, clues, _anything_. Text Lestrade, no news. Text Mycroft, no news. And as for himself…no news. It was enough to drive the average man insane. But John wasn't an average man, in many respects, and so he slid from day to day, maintaining the focus and anger, always holding out hope for another clue, another piece of the puzzle…God help him, he even hoped for another crime to be committed just so they would have another opportunity through which to work in finding him. Finding Moriarty. Find Jim. It was often repeated in his head. Find Jim.

No milk today, he noted whilst blearily peering into the fridge. The corner of his mouth twitched as if to smile. It was almost nostalgic of Sherlock being there as he discovered its absence. But he didn't let himself go there. No. All he desired nowadays was to _find Jim_. And _kill Jim_. So he set his face firm against the rest of the world and all its absent milks as he grabbed his jacket off of the hook and started down the stairs. He'd gotten so used to Mrs. Hudson doing the shopping these last few weeks that he'd barely been out at all. This outing would probably be good for him.

He started down the stairs and stopped suddenly, seeing the body on the floor beside the base of the staircase. His hand clenched the rail for a second before he propelled himself down toward it. He came to the bottom and around, almost crashing sideways onto the floor, and knelt unsteadily next to the person, rolling them over. Mrs. Hudson! A quick vitals survey found her breathing to be unlabored, her skin color normal, and her pulse to be steady and regular. _So, alive, just unconscious_. His own heart beat rapidly. But even though she may appear fine to all outward signals, there was no telling what had put her into this… _What the?!_

His hands flew up to his neck as the wire pulled tight against his throat. A hand came up from behind and covered his gasping mouth with a cloth. He tried to buck the person off of him with minimal results. They were big, and his heart was beginning to pound in his ears. He scrabbled a few seconds more in vain against his attacker, but the blackness rushed up to him, and then he was falling…..

Jim held Sherlock to his chest tightly, his inner thighs in light contact with the outer portions of the detective's own as they sat there in the middle of the study floor. One man idly tapping away at a laptop, the other lost within himself as he contemplated the fact that up until now he could never abide the physical touch of another person. It nauseated him, filling him with an instant rage, the likes of which rivalled the PTSD of a quadriplegic veteran. Yet here, at this point in time, he sat with someone, his _enemy_, clutched against himself in a most intimate and soul-bearing manner. And all he felt was the quiet. His awareness…was silenced. Peaceful. And to the criminal's ever vigilant mind, the source of this enigma, clasped before Jim in a constricting embrace, seemed almost oblivious to the evil presence pressed against himself.

Sherlock was _very_ aware of the shirtless, trouserless man pressed flush to his back. However, his skills at manipulating his countenance and accompanying actions were second to none. He continued on with his game of Pong, acting the superb part of playing "hard to get" and "I'm aloof and can't be bothered." It troubled him not at all to use his body as well as his mind in the game of mental subterfuge that they seemed to be constantly engaged in. Although, considering the criminal's actions tonight, he was becoming increasingly unsure of the man's motivations. Easily deduced in the beginning as Jim needing to conquer every aspect of the detective's life, _now_ it seemed…complicated. As if the James had discovered something, recognized something important, and now was attempting to adjust his exact target, his endgame. _Curious_… But enough of that.

Jim found himself inexplicably relaxing ever deeper against the shoulders before him. Sherlock's silken dress shirt felt quite pleasant and cool against his own skin, still flushed with heat from the nightmare he had been granted freedom from. He lay his cheek alongside the back of the detective's neck, eyes closed and just breathing in the tranquility offered here…that is, until he was shortly thrown onto his back and roughly clambered over by Sherlock, who seemed in an awful hurry to get somewhere.

Feeling somewhat bewildered, and trampled, Jim lay there with his arms extended out over his head staring at the ceiling. Thankfully, carpeting was what his back had landed against instead of cold hardwood. His mind floated for second, deciding between anger or bemusement…and then he felt a hand clasp in his, which he reflexively closed his own around. And then, with a violent jerk, he was off, being dragged across the carpet and skidding along the hardwood just barely managing to twist and right himself, stumbling in the direction that the wild haired man was tugging him in. His bare feet slapped the floor as he attempted to reclaim his usual predatory grace, failing miserably in nothing but his pants. _When did I lose my top?_ he asked himself, his mind staggering to keep up with the strangeness of the almost surreal situation.

Sherlock reached the hallway just ahead of Jim, pulling the nearly naked man after himself in an all-out dash. When he stopped suddenly, the criminal crashed into his back, and Sherlock turned to look at him as if he had forgotten whom he towed. His brow furrowed as he took in the appearance of James Moriarty: consulting criminal and most feared presence known to the civilized world…..in nothing but his pants.

"Do you always go running around starkers at night?" he asked as Jim reflexively brought his arms up, covering his chest.

"I…"

"Where's your gun?"

"Er…?"

"You have one. A Beretta. Where is it?"

"I had it…with me…" Jim turned around, looking back into the study. Sherlock looked over his head and spied it at the same time as the shorter man did. It lay on the carpet beside where they had been sitting, most probably having been dropped there by Jim when he had decided to curl himself around the detective. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sight of such an ordinary means being brought for dispatching him.

"Trite," he said as he strode back into the room, scooped the gun off of the floor, and returned to Jim's side, examining the weapon as he turned it in his hand. Jim opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Yes, well, it will do. Now, where can we shoot things?" And after a moment's hesitation, Jim replied.

"North Grand Reception Hall."

"Right," Sherlock nodded, lowering the gun to his side. "Where's that?"

"Um, can I…get some trousers on maybe?" Jim gestured downwards at his short, pale legs. And perhaps it was just the crisis of his earlier nightmare, or the lateness of the hour, but Sherlock noticed that Jim's accent was stronger at this time than it had ever been. This made the end of his sentence sound more like, "…get soom troosers on mebbe?" Odd. With an exaggerated sigh, the detective acquiesced.

"Yes, alright."

John woke with a pounding head to an unimpressive view of a concrete ceiling with little colonies of water marks here and there. A kaleidoscope of grays. His information processing came quicker the more awake he became. It wasn't cold, but neither was it very warm. He was lying on a very firm, one could almost say 'rock-hard,' mattress. He rubbed his eyes, wondering what Sherlock was playing at this time, when it all rushed back into his awareness. Sherlock: gone. Mrs. Hudson: unconscious. Then he looked around at his small, sparse accommodations, obviously meant as a prison. And he finished his mental assessment. Himself: screwed.

He pushed up to better view his surroundings. Well, _better_ wasn't exactly what happened, but still. He stepped off from the 'bed' and walked to the door, feeling like an idiot when he checked to see if it was locked. Of course it was. _Worst kidnapping ever, if not_, he mused. He turned around, noting that there were no windows, one tiny vent in the ceiling, and nothing else much to occupy his sight. He looked back to the door. Hinges were well taken care of, no rust. No gap at the bottom of the door, and the knob was firmly set. He looked down at his feet, standing upon yet more concrete, and sighed. He walked back over to the little cot of what his back was telling him must be composed of bedrock and sat down facing the doorway. He hoped the wait wouldn't be too long.

_Sssthuk_! The last of the silenced gun's bullets went through the drywall above Jim's head where a small circle was drawn. It was perhaps an inch away from being dead center. The criminal smiled and brushed the dust from the wall off of his hair and off of the plain white t-shirt that had been the only thing Sherlock had allowed him time enough to pull on. He stepped away and looked back at the marksmanship, nodding approvingly as he did.

"See. Your grip _was_ off. Large-handed individuals often have the problem you did," he drawled. "Practice a bit more, and you might actually worry me from a distance of more than fifteen feet some day." A soft chuckle followed after this statement. The detective frowned down at the gun in his hand.

"You're not _that_ much better," came the somewhat childish retort as the taller man dumped the empty clip with a dissatisfied sneer on his face. Both he and Jim looked to the other circle drawn several inches higher. It was riddled with another clip's worth of holes, but this circle's holes were congregated around the center rather than simply being within the circumscribed purple magic marker. Jim turned away from the sight first.

"Yes, well…I wouldn't want to…_frighten_ you, Sherlock."

"Frighten me. How…quaint," the detective smirked with a challenge in his eye. James looked on, and then nodded. He walked over to the taller man and stopped to reach out his hand. It trailed first down Sherlock's right bicep, then his forearm, finally reaching the hand with the weapon. He neatly plucked the gun from slender fingers and gestured with it towards their bullet-ridden wall.

"Alright…stand there again," Jim said with a lower than normal voice. _Aroused by danger_, the detective mentally tipped his hat to the other man, as he welcomed the same odd sort of foreplay.

The detective made his way over to the wall, thinking what a sight they must make. Himself in a mostly buttoned dress shirt, trousers and bare feet; Moriarty in a white undershirt and just his pants below; shooting at each other in a very fancy hall filled with tables, chandeliers, and a stage. As he reached the wall and placed his back against it, he eyed the criminal standing some thirty feet back. He had only allowed Jim to put on a shirt. In the back of his mind, he thought it wise to keep the other man as off-balance as possible, and tainting all of their encounters with a sexual tension seemed to do this just nicely. He needed to maintain the upper hand. He was beginning to think that, even though he obviously didn't have all of the data, something was very wrong about the rapport he and this madman were having. Though it felt right, right now, Sherlock felt as if there were some key component to his knowledge missing; and once replaced…he would no longer find himself in such amiable company.

Jim waved with his free hand to tell the detective to have his legs shoulder length apart. Then he held his arms out to the sides, cruciform, and the taller man mimicked him. Jim held up the free hand again and spread his fingers wide, and Sherlock answered by splaying his own out against the wall. Jim's eyes were sparkling with an inner darkness at this point as he snapped another clip in and raised his right arm slowly, the gun held with a cool professionalism in his grip. No support was offered by the left extremity, which Sherlock found somewhat discomfiting due to the potential recoil.

Jim's mind blazed with the knowledge that here he had his greatest enemy standing willingly before him as he sighted down the gun's length. It gave him a small shiver of satisfaction…and something else entirely…to think on this accomplishment. Truly, he felt as if he could continue this game, this problem, _eternally_ if it continued to bring these feelings, these experiences, with it. He could feel himself go half-hard already and shifted his stance to accommodate it. His eyes were on the detective's own for a moment before drawing down fully once more. And he fired. Repeatedly.

To his credit, Sherlock winced only once during the entire thing. And when the muffled gunshots ceased, he turned his head to where he had felt most of the vibrations in the wall. And he stared in mute fascination at the holes beside, and in between, each of the fingers of his left hand. And then there were a few just beside where his neck met his shoulder. If he'd have flinched an inch higher… His attention was recaptured by a loud _snick_. His eyes raced back to Jim, who had just loaded another clip. Jim smiled winsomely…and passed the gun to his _left_ hand... Sherlock remained frozen against the wall as the gun came up once more, the criminal sighted him down, and the shots rang out.

His eyes had scrunched closed, he was embarrassed to note, but as of yet, no pain had set in. So either Jim was a _really_ lousy shot with his left, or…his eyes opened and turned to his right. And there, just as on his left, his right fingers were interspersed with evidence of bullet passages, as well as his neck now on this side. His face was flushed from adrenaline as he met the other man's eyes.

"Ambidexterity," Sherlock rumbled out eventually as Jim slowly ambled over, the gun cradled in his shirt as he polished at an imaginary spot along its length. He made a noise of assent, though, indicating that he was listening. The detective's arms had dropped to his sides, and he stood between the holes made on either side of his neck. When Jim looked up and saw this….he paused as a cat does when first spying a mouse, all intensity and taut musculature. Then he threw the gun to the side, where it clattered along the floor for a ways, and quickly stalked up into Sherlock's personal space.

Jim planted a hand on either side of the detective's shoulders, looking slightly up at the taller man. He leaned in almost as if doing a strange vertical push-up, bringing his face right into the pale jawline before him. And then he breathed in slowly before speaking, closing his eyes momentarily.

"I smell…fear…" he whispered. And he pushed back to stare up into those gray-green eyes with an unreadable look on his face.

"Is that what drywall smells like? How disturbing," was Sherlock's attempted distracting reply, and he reached between up them as if to brush at his shirt. But when he did this, he grabbed Jim's elbows in the bends and pulled down. Then he twisted them up and over, slamming the criminal into the wall, effectively reversing their positions and holding Jim by the wrists, keeping them over his head. The shorter man smiled lazily at this, as if watching a child's efforts at amusing an adult, and slid his arms down the wall slowly, unthreateningly, with the detective's grip steel-strong on him the entire time. The detective's mind raced. Sherlock hadn't really wanted to end up like this, but the little twat had been too smug. So, how to release him now without a big fuss?

The answer was a moot point as Jim swept a leg up and around into the back of Sherlock's knee, causing him to stumble minutely. But that was all the slack Jim needed. He forced his arms down, breaking the hold and pulling Sherlock forward, stepping around him. He grabbed the detective by the shoulders from behind as he came to a halt. Sherlock suddenly found his face and chest pressed into the wall's cool exterior next to a set of bullet holes, and Jim was behind him, against him, holding him firm by the forearms down by his waist.

Jim leaned in this time with a staged looked of obscenity and audibly breathed in the scent at the base of Sherlock's neck. Then he slid his face around to where his chin was just barely resting on the other man's shoulder and whispered to him.

"Naughty naughty, Sherlock. I really should teach…" he trailed off as he heard hurried footsteps approaching them, and his attention shifted. It would have to be something very bad for his men to have interrupted him at play. They knew better. So he released the not-really-struggling detective and turned just as two of his men walked briskly through one set of doors to the hall. He turned to bow mockingly at Sherlock, and then he glided over to the waiting agents.

"He's gone, sir. That is…John…the doctor, sir," the first one began to verbally stumble as Jim came within earshot. His eyes flashed, and the man continued. "Doctor Watson, sir. He was taken, from his flat this morning. Big mess with NSY and…_others_…involved, sir. They think it was you." Jim looked the man over carefully, considering his words before asking.

"Why, other than the obvious, should they think it was me?" And the men hesitated before the other one responded, reaching into his back pocket.

"They found this on the staircase," and the man held out his phone with a picture on it. And Jim's heart fell through the earth's crust when he saw it. There, bold and unmistakable, was the large, red insignia of the Moriarty clan spray-painted over and over along the stairway leading up to 221B Baker Street.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Ah, thanks to Revella for the early praise and proofing. She so wonderfully makes sure that y'all's brains won't be molested with too crappy of reading material. The poor thing. And all while she's composing/posting her own Sherlock fic, AND her own original fics. Geez. I just can't compare…

Damn. _How to fix this?_ Jim's mind spun around the newly revealed threat to his empire. His kingdom. His…everything. The two agents stood mutely to either side, secretly hoping their boss wouldn't notice them. Almost edging away when the direction of his gaze landed on either one. Jim paced side to side in short, quick strides. _How?_ _And why?_ Damn again. He wasn't focusing. He needed clarity. He needed…..

"Sheeeeer-looooock," Jim called out in sing-song manner, drawing out the detective's name as he spun away in an almost-pirouette from the two who had delivered the news he had feared discovering for years. _Last time he found me has to have been almost five years gone_, the criminal thought quickly, staring at the wild haired man as an idea slowly formed in his mind. Looking at Sherlock often did that; calmed his thoughts. And whilst calm, his course plotted itself out in his head. Now, he knew what to do, but…. There was just one problem, and a tall one at that. _Need him distracted. Certainly can't come with me for this. Need something to hold his attention… A puzzle to solve…for me_. It came to him rather quickly, all things considered, and it took shape, a beautiful shape, in his mind. _Perfect_, flitted through his brain as his eyes locked on the detective's. He tilted his head down, and then rotated it slowly to the left, up, and then back around, repeating the motion on the opposite side. The movement reminded all who witnessed it of a serpent's undulations as it tested the strength of its coils. And those predatory eyes razed Sherlock's own with renewed interest.

The detective returned his gaze, cool and collected, as if minutes ago he hadn't just been pressed into a wall to within an inch of his life. Sherlock could still feel a tingling in his wrists where the other man had held him. But matters of transport were secondary Something was going on. Something big enough to unnerve _James Moriarty_. This gave him a slightly unsettled feeling down deep in his gut. What could do that? _Besides me, of course_, he thought in his usual egotistical pattern. His eyes traced the planes of the criminal's face, each angle and shadow a "how-to" on the man before him. Jim's form had shifted, subtly, oh so subtly, but there for the deduction if one chose to utilize a brain cell or three. The miniscule dip to the normally straight and self-assured shoulders, the almost unnoticeable twitch to the left brow, and the trying-to-show-how-I'm-not-nervous plucking at of imaginary shirt sleeves all slid into place within the exterior portion of Sherlock's mind palace. And then the criminal's mask had slid back into place, obscuring particulars and preventing further review. The facts, however, coalesced before Sherlock into a more complete picture once all was accounted for.

His eyes continued to return Moriarty's gaze, even as his mind sought answers. A delicate whisper of change rolled through Jim's body as he watched, and Sherlock was certain that the other man had reached a conclusion to whatever he had been thinking. _Damn. What could it be?_ What could possibly ever cause more than a second's extra caution to emerge from the astoundingly powerful man before him? _**What**__ could do this? __**How**__ was it accomplished? __**Who**__ could cause…? …oh…_ He blinked as it crashed through him. In the end, it was simple. What could cause a man, if one were to be loose with the term, like James Moriarty to flinch? To stutter? To stumble? Why, the same thing that caused ordinary people to flinch…..even himself at times. The detective schooled his expression into unreadability as he arrived at the answer. _Family_. But why was Jim thinking of family?

Jim knew Sherlock was deducing him, but that couldn't be helped. He could only hope that his concocted distraction would be enough to curb curiosity for now. And so he made his way back over to the detective, casually catching his eye as he came to stand within inches of body contact, rocking back and forth on his toes like an excited little boy. And even though Sherlock wasn't exactly _afraid_ of the other man (after all, what did he have to lose that was of any value?), still it made him uncomfortable to stand before the eye of the storm within James' eyes; he fancied he could feel the swirling tempest that formed around their bodies whenever the criminal was so physically close. Obsession didn't even come close to the descriptive language necessary for what Sherlock was to Jim…and what he was becoming. He almost shivered as Jim stopped his rocking and reached a hand out and grazed a finger up along the inside of his arm, coming to rest lightly on his shoulder; and then Jim was speaking to him, and quietly.

"I have a problem for you, Sherlock," he began, "A challenge." And he let that hang in the air between them for a few moments. The detective made no move to draw it out further, and so Jim continued, "A puzzle, if you will. Involving a bank with a rather above-average security designer." He paused to see if Sherlock was still with him, and to what extent. He found the other man's eyes raptly focused on him for once, only him. He smiled. "Yes, it was rather bad of him to say that even the "notorious Moriarty" who got the Bank of England open couldn't break in _his_ design. Pity him, the fool." He spun to walk away, leaving Sherlock somewhat unsettled. "My people will bring you the blueprints and anything else you need. Find a way in, Sherlock. I did. In 17 hours, on and off. But you do better. For me." He reached the door and turned back. "I've got some…business, I have to arrange in the meantime," his eyes flashed back at the taller man, "Solve it for me, my detective." And he left the room, exuding power and control even when clad in just a thin shirt and underpants, the two agents trailing behind. Unspoken was the challenge to complete the challenge in a shorter amount of time, but Sherlock heard nonetheless.

John awoke to harsh laughter approaching the door to his "room." He sat up quickly and made to stand. No need to be a helpless captive, and he didn't want whoever his jailer was to think that he was just in here sleeping. He could be planning, aware, ready…_something_ other than napping. But then he wondered what the point would be for him to be standing in front of the door, prepared to fight for his life. If they wanted him dead, he would be. So he was worth something, and he needed to figure out what it was. And so he sat, straightening his shirt and jeans, and waited as the voices drew nearer.

They stopped talking when they came before the door, and he heard the lock being turned. The voice was muffled, but some quality to it sent an involuntary shriek of fear chasing across his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It wasn't that he recognized it exactly; it was just…similar, to someone else. As if an echo from a great distance was reaching out to him. And he thought, maybe, he detected an accent. _Not from England, then_, he thought, as it didn't fit any particular pattern he was familiar with of his homeland. The lock clicked open, and the door handle twitched downward a bit before swinging in.

There was nothing at first, his room being dark and the hallway behind the door barely brighter. But he did soon note a larger shadow, which began to move into the room slowly. Nothing was said yet, only the soft scrape of shoes on concrete broke the silence as the shadow approached. The tension was thick in the air as neither said a word. And John's gasp of indrawn breath when the single light source revealed the features of his captor caused a broad, and sickening, smile to spread across those very familiar, and yet not, lips. The doctor's heart began to race, and sweat broke out all over him. This couldn't be real. It couldn't! But as he was fighting his visual senses, he watched as James Moriarty stepped forward to greet his honored prisoner.

"John Watson, yes. James Moriarty. Hi," his voice a slightly deeper timbre, but of the same quality, reached out across the distance between them, its thick, street-born Irish a further delineation helping John to confirm that he was not seeing whom he had thought at first. The voice continued as he resurfaced from the inundation of surprise. "Yeah, I see yeh…_rec'nize_…sumthin? I kin dare say that I know what it is, too. But Oi am not a man of werds like my bruther. And so Oi'm on with et." James crossed his arms and went on. "Jimmy is in need of handling. The sort o' thing best run by fam'ly, if ya catch me." John blinked as the large man before him paused. _Brother; his brother_. _Jim Moriarty has a brother! _The ex-soldier's mind was stunned into a nonfunctional mass of neurons at this revelation. _Two of them!_

John's eyes scanned his captor, taking in the similarities, but also the glaring dissimilarities, between the two brothers. This James had a filled out facial structure with a stronger jawline, his eyes a deeper set perhaps, and maybe darker in color as well. Hair with a touch of red to it, but it was hard to judge in the low lighting. In regard to physique, they were opposites, completely. Jim was rather petite in most ways, standing four or five inches shorter. And where Jim's smaller stature contained a kind of wiry muscle, James had developed a much more phenotypical strength, with the buttons of the vest he wore straining across a broad chest. He was almost the comical Irish super villain in a cliché outfit, with his bootcut jeans, white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and black designer vest atop this. But a look into those eyes would steal the laughter from one's soul. And apparently speech as well, as John stood mutely before this nightmare come to life. He had been prepared for Moriarty, or the devil himself (if there was even a difference)…but not this. Where Jim was a more cultured and genteel strain of evil, here stood the opposite version, violent intentions seeping out of him like a miasma of death. No mistaking which of the two brothers John would prefer to have in the room alone with him now; and this surprised and scared the doctor equally.

"'E'll come 'ere, fer _you_. I know 'e will, my bruther. Won't be able ta stand tha' Oi've stuck my finger in 'is pie. 'E's stupit like tha'. Sure enuff, an he's got the brains of a scientist, but when it comes to hurtin' people…Oi'm far an above 'im." Calm and level, this new Moriarty spoke with a firm confidence in himself and what he spoke. And John believed him; like he'd never believed anyone else. This man did not lie; he had no need to. He held every advantage at this point. And he braced himself mentally for what might come, trying desperately to think of something he had to barter with. At the least, they seemed to share a common enemy…perhaps that could be used somehow? But for now, he needed information.

"And what exactly are you wanting me to do for you, eh?" John queried. "I'm no fan of your brother's, and he knows it well. I can't see him coming after _me_ for any reason."

"Oh, but 'e will. An I jus' want yeh to go with 'im, when 'e comes. Tha's all."

"Go…with…_him_…?" John tilted his head down and looked up at the man before him, the incredulity written across his face.

"Aye. Run along with 'im. This 'ere is what some call a 'power play.' I took sumthin tha' was 'is. And e'll come fer it." James paced as he spoke. "Jimmy's been gone too long. Thinks 'e owes no loyalty." James spun back in a circle, gesturing downward with his arms to emphasize his next sentence. "An 'e…is wrong!" And a laugh followed after, with the big man then walking companionably over to John's seated position, hands clasped behind his back. He stood looking down at the doctor, who kept up a nonthreatening front. No need to provoke! However, this did not deter the huge fist that swung out like a tree branch and crashed into the doctor's clavicle, knocking him over the bed where he then almost toppled off. And just like that, James was back to his innocent stroll, actually humming to himself as he passed back through the door. And John heard one thing more before the door closed on him.

"Tha's fer ever tryin' ta come after ma Jimmy. I know you've done. But he's fam'ly, and tha's all there is in this werld anymore." And the door snicked shut, leaving John lying in the resumed state of semi-darkness wondering at the craziness inherent in that family tree.

Jim warily approached through the doors of the huge building. It hadn't been hard to find James; he'd _wanted_ to be found. And Jim knew it would have to be himself alone, so he left the agent and the car a street over and walked with great trepidation towards his sibling's location. The building itself used to be rented out flats. It was two story and shabby, the walls and ceilings composed of concrete in a very unimaginative combination. Ugly, drab, dismal, take your pick. It was so…James, to stage a reunion in such a dump. And Jim knew this would not be one of his easier early confrontations with his brother. The last one had barely been without blood spilled, and that had been years ago.

It wasn't fear of bodily harm coming to John Watson that kept his feet moving inward to the apartment door bearing the number of their childhood home. _How mundane_, he thought. No, he wasn't worried in the least about John living or dying. What he _cared_ about, if one chose to call it that, was that his plan had been tampered with. His plan, his final problem, his most interesting distraction ever…was being manipulated by the person he hated most in this world. And that was a powerful enough motivator for the time being to give him incentive for keeping the doctor alive. He stopped before the door, thinking how lucky Sherlock was that he was going to all this trouble for him, then pushed on the door.

It opened to a very expected scene. James the younger sat patiently on a single chair in the center of what used to be a living area, now squalid and damp. Two of his thugs stood behind him against the wall, leaning as if bored. James himself was unarmed and currently leaned down with forearms on his elbows, staring at the floor in thought. At Jim's entrance, the large man canted his head upwards and smiled. Then he pushed up into a straight backed position in his chair. Even sitting down, his physical presence dwarfed his older brother, making him seem smaller. At the age of 32, where Jim should be feeling still in the prime of his existence, especially as how he held control of the undercurrent of the civilized world…here, he felt old. Small. Weak. Standing before his 29 year old brother, who held every physical genetic advantage, Jim felt again a small boy, crying for his mother, for anyone, to help him. His insides boiled. How he _hated_ this.

"Jimmy," came the hated moniker, "It took sooooooo long to foind yeh this time. But no worries! Oi'm not 'ere ta ruin yer little plans." James stood and walked to a few feet before the accomplished criminal. "Oi just wanted ta be shure that yeh remembered me, eh? Remember where yeh came from." And his hand reached out suddenly to pat at Jim's shoulder, neither of them missing the subtle cringe that raced through the smaller man's frame. He held his voice in check, though, as he tried a bit of bravado. _Never let others see you weak_. The mantra from his youth the only thing keeping his muscles from complete tetany.

"And just how _did_ you find me? Tell me your method?" Jim paused, feigning nonchalance, knowing something that would irk the other man just slightly. "Maybe you're finally getting good enough for running with _me_…the _original_ James Moriarty." Jim's eyes followed his brother, seeking confirmation that his jibe had landed. But the comment was only met with a casual amusement, whereas it used to send the other into a towering rage. Of course, it _had_ been five years. People did change, he supposed. Damn. In the past, they would clash and collide about every eight to twelve months. Each time with Jim creating a new way to hide and continue his work, regretting ever confronting his sibling. _Really, he's like a cockroach_, he thought.

"Oh, Jimmy. No need fer this. Yeh're at the end 'ere with me, yeh just don't know it yet. I 'ave only a little bit more o' the rope fer yeh. And then yeh're gonna get yers." He nodded at his older brother, continuing. "Yeh, Oi'm gonna tear your empire down 'round your ears, Jimmy. Public like, for what yeh've done ta me, the disrespect."

"And what is that, James? What have I done this time?" Jim queried, staring at his nails as if disinterested in this whole affair. The he changed topics. "And where is he?" he asked with the courage of his younger, less safety-conscious self.

"Oh ho ho. No yeh don't, bruther. We're not fer gettin' inta that right now. Oi've got special plans for when we do, though..." James snapped the fingers of one hand, and one of the men against the wall stepped forward. "As for '_im_, the doctor man, feel free to take 'im with yeh. You know what Oi'll do to 'im if yeh leave 'im….. And Oi only grabbed 'im to show yeh sumthin' anyway. And did yeh catch it, Jimmy?" They stared death at each other across the air until James continued. "Oi kin take _**anythin'**_ o' yours…at _any_ time." The storm of hatred across the younger Moriarty's countenance lasted only a few seconds after this declaration before it cleared, and he grinned once again, "Now go pick up tha' man and swing by agin before yeh two leave."

Jim searched for treachery in his sibling's features, but could find none. He could almost laugh. How very like his brother. All of this, just to show he was better. That he could pull one over on his older sibling, even though Jim was by far the more successful of the pair. Whatever. His brother _was_ a worrisome problem now that he had been located again, and not a small bit scary; but Jim had more important, and interesting, things back home right now. So he simply turned to his brother's man who passed by him and down the hall, and fell in step behind him, presumably going to wherever they were holding John Watson. He readjusted his stride to exhibit his usual icy demeanor, but he couldn't help but feel small and petty while doing it. Especially knowing he was doing it solely for the benefit of a person he hated more intensely than he had once thought he hated Sherlock.

The first two things Jim noticed when the door to John's room opened and he had entered were the pair of arms around his neck…and that breathing was a terrible difficulty. He sputtered a bit and reached up at the arms, his brother's hired man pulling his gun and aiming point blank at the side of the doctor's head. One look in John's eyes, though, showed that death held no mystery or fear for this one. His grip tightened, emphasizing his determination to take this man with him into eternity as Jim just barely managed to whisper into the scuffling silence.

"I do…believe…that you are…killing…your savior," was gasped out. _What_? And John released the slightest bit of pressure across the criminal's throat.

"Come again?" came his half-growled reply.

"I'm here to take you, _save_ you, if you will, provided you can deign to rein in that violence of yours a moment." And John's mind tried to collect itself from the confusing thought of gaining assistance from a man he believed sudden death would make an improvement on.

"Well, I just," John stuttered, easing off a bit more, "you know, figured he was having me on about all that being let go stuff." And Jim took this opportunity to slide down and sideways out of the man's grip, looking down to dust himself off and attempting to unwrinkle his clothes, looking peevish when he was unsuccessful. When he looked back up, he just barely had time to see the fist careening towards him. As it was, he turned and the majority of the blow was taken to the side of his neck and shoulder. It staggered Jim back a step, and he looked up at the normally play-it-fair ex-soldier in what might have been one of the few truly surprised moments of his life. John just shrugged and rolled his shoulders.

"Just because you're saving me doesn't mean you're not an arsehole."

Jim had no desire to see his sibling again, but the man at their backs who carried a gun was enough of a motivator. With John seething at the situation in general beside him, Jim faced off before his brother once more. They stood again in the same room he had met James in; Jim with a look to curdle milk while still inside the cow, John with enough curbed violence to ignite an H-bomb, and James smiling grandly at them both as he spoke. He gestured to the way out.

"An there 'tis, Jimmy. Free passage back ta yer ever-so-loyal subjects. But there's jes' one thing, before yeh go. A reminder, if yeh will, of just whose side yeh should be joined to." The larger sibling had made his way somewhat circuitously over to the pair and now looked them dead in the eyes one last time. Jim stood, cool and collected, not even returning the stare, but instead gazing off at a point beyond James. John almost flinched when James' darker brown eyes turned and found his own. The anger he saw restrained behind the now-calm exterior raged against doors too thin. His eyes darted sideways to his would-be savior, once again finding himself wishing there was still only the one Moriarty in his life. But his contemplations were cut short by a sudden burst of violence.

James reared upwards, drawing his arm up and back with him and coming down in one smooth motion that the eyes could scarcely follow. Jim Moriarty fell to the floor at John's feet as the blow connected, leaving the doctor to stare in horror at the man who had put him there. His vision tracked Jim again for a second before returning with wariness to the criminal's brother. The sight of Moriarty, _Sherlock's_ Moriarty (God how he hated to think of him that way), sprawled out on the floor and seemingly at the mercy of this man set a bitter chill running through him. Because if this brilliant madman he had grown to hate was bested, then what chance had a mere ex-soldier at winning in this game?

But instead of further viciousness, James stepped back, once again waving at the way out as he spoke his goodbyes.

"We could rule this part o' the werld, Jimmy. If yeh would just come home. And yeh will, me bruther. One day…yeh will." And he clapped his hands together as a boxer does with chalked up palms, turning and striding from the room and, presumably, the building itself. His men stayed a bit behind, securing John's hands behind his back with zip ties before heading after their boss.

John, still a bit stupefied from the sight of his most hated enemy being brutally taken down, watched as Jim stood slowly, stretching his neck and touching his lower lip, a sneer of disdain evident when he found the blood from where his tooth had made a small laceration. He sucked the cut and then spat blood onto the floor where his brother had stood, turning a slow circle as if thinking to himself before finally refocusing on John, who tried to speak, but failed miserably. What do you say to a hated enemy you wish was dead but can't kill until you find out what's happened to your best friend?

"Well, um…yeah…that was…hrmmmm…" he trailed off as he noticed Jim close his eyes and begin to speak. His voice was soft, yet firm and encompassing all at once.

"What you saw…..what you _think_ you saw…" A pale hand darted up again to an injured lip, and the tongue snaked out over the cut again. "You saw…_nothing_." Brown eyes flicked ice toward John's own, seeking confirmation of his understanding…and his agreement. John nodded, a bit bewildered but willing to play along for now if it meant getting him out of this place finally.

"Yeah. Nothing."

The car's windows were so black in the back that even the two occupants couldn't see through them. _Probably bullet-proof_, thought John as they pulled away. And he went completely still as he watched Jim pull a knife from his pocket. The criminal's eyes glinted, but then he shrugged and made a "come here" motion with a twirling gesture that the doctor took as "turn around." He tested his zip tie bonds once more before giving in, figuring he had nothing to lose. He cringed inwardly as the cold metal made contact with his skin. And when the ties fell to the floor, John quickly returned to his seat across from Jim. And they sat facing each other, with perhaps a distance of a few feet between their shoes on the floorboard.

Jim's gaze never wavered as he took in the entirety of John's appearance. He studied him. He deduced him. His entire career. His hobbies. His family strife. His newly discovered love of danger that Sherlock brought out in him. His less than exemplary love life….. Ah! There it was! He followed that trail down, down, down…until he reached the confession. It must have happened just before he took Sherlock. Jim would have known otherwise because he had the dialogue recorded in the flat under constant surveillance. So this was new….and fragile. How fantastical! Moriarty's mind flew down the avenues of his Hall of Mirrors as he processed this information and froze it within one of his ever evolving passageways.

John watched those dead eyes settle upon him. It was like looking into the stare of some taxidermist's prize tiger. Lifeless. Flat. Terrifying. And on _him_! He shifted in his seat, wondering if he should say something. Jim sat with one foot on the seat, knee bent up before him and his arms clasped around it as his chin rested on top. The other leg just kind of lay flung out and down the leather cushion. _Well_, John thought to himself, _what the hell_? _He wouldn't have gone to these lengths just to kill me._ His eyes sought those of the other man once again, still lifeless and unreflectively burning into his own. _Right_? But how could anyone be certain of this man's motivations? It bothered him more than he cared to admit. He decided, in the end, that direct was best. Direct, he knew.

"What've you done with him, you poncy git?" Well, maybe he could've shown more tact. But damn… Those cold eyes returned to the conscious world with an immediacy John imagined was felt through time and tides. Its weight fell on him like an old oak. He suppressed a shiver, instead settling back into his seat as if not a care in the world affected him. The brown orbs seemed to look _through_ him at first, and then refocused and took in his exterior, finding nothing threatening apparently, to judge by the smile that slid onto those pale and bloodied lips.

"My my, Dr. Watson. Must we do this?" And the thought suddenly crossed John's mind that he was alone, unrestrained, with a man he was fairly sure he could take down in a fair fight. His body language must have shifted notably, as the next words from the man across from him made him fear mind reading abilities.

"They have orders to kill him, you know. Should I not return. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, doctor." The corner of Jim's mouth twitched ever upward at his own words. _Shit_, thought John. He evaluated and discarded several methods of questioning as they sat in a contest of epic silence. But he finally settled on directness again. _He can tell what I'm thinking anyway, and he detects lies since he's so bloody good at it himself_.

"Look, I don't know what you're doing. And I don't know what part I play in all of this. In fact, _my_ part is the most confusing of all. I mean, why would you…?" He trailed off as Jim's suddenly blazing eyes reminded him of the "nothing" he had just recently agreed to seeing. He sighed. Not easy, this. "I mean, you've got us. You've won. But you haven't killed us. What's the point?" His mind grasped at an idea. "Wouldn't it be more gratifying to let us go? To let Sherlock go. And he'd know for the rest of his life that you won. That he was free only because of you." It was a long shot, but you never knew what would appeal to one so obviously obsessed with winning, appearances, and distractions. But Moriarty didn't rise to the baiting.

"Yes, so simple, wouldn't it be, Dr. Watson? But no. I have much greater plans for Sherlock, plans that are already in motion and settling into his bones, his being."

"He won't follow you. Never willingly."

"Oh, but I think you're wrong there, doctor." Jim set both feet flat in front of him and leaned down with elbows on his knees. "He already does. Already has. And currently _is_, even as I speak." And John shook his head.

"No. He wouldn't. He hates you."

"He needs me."

"He needs you to have a bullet in your head."

"Such odd things you say. But no, he doesn't wish that. Not any more…"

"What? You're insane. Why would he ever have changed his mind? What could possibly make the most stubborn man on this planet change his mind?" And John was horrified as he suddenly found himself pressed against the back of the seat, one of Jim's hands pushing into his chest, and the other beside his head. Those fiery dead eyes came to within inches of his own, the expression beneath them difficult to read, but turning slowly into the kind of joyful expression that follows when someone first learns that they've won something.

"Yes, doctor. Insanity has its place in my mind, but not his. And he…follows _me_ now. You ask what has changed? What could have possibly brought him around to where he should have been all along?" Jim leaned even closer, and John could smell the menthol from an earlier cigarette on the man's breath, and a hint of something else, something familiar. "Think. What has held him back? What _always_ holds him back?" And John thought he knew the answer, but was afraid to voice it. And Moriarty saw the conclusion in his eyes. He nodded slowly at the despairing ex-soldier. "Yes. _Yes_. It's you. John. Your influence. Your balance. _Always_ holding him back. But no more." And Jim leaned forward more and brought his lips right beside John's ear to whisper, "I have erased you….. Replaced you…"

John pushed out suddenly, catching Jim in the abdomen and tumbling him to the floor between the seats. At first, the doctor couldn't believe what he'd done, and he cringed inwardly to think of the reaction this might elicit. But as with so many other things, the criminal reacted in an unexpected manner, laughing boldly as he pulled himself back onto his own side of the car's seating. _He knows_, John thought as he watched the laughter turn into a dark thing. And Jim _did_ know. He knew why John had pushed him so suddenly, reacted the way he did. And Jim himself had even calculated it, predicted it. Because John wasn't afraid of the criminal's proximity or threat inherent therein. No. He'd reacted so badly once Jim was closer because he could then identify the second scent carried on the other man like a cologne of blood and tears. Sherlock.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: Ah, thank God for Revella, or else y'all would have to get partial lobotomies to get this crap outta your skulls. Anyways, I've been at a conference in Nashville this week, so any other general crappiness is due to alcohol. So there.

Jim leaned back into the smooth leather of the car's bench seat. He knew why John had reacted the way he did, had counted on it even. And it amused him to watch it all play out before him. Shock. Jealousy. Disgust. Anger. Helplessness. Better than reality TV! Jim sighed as he eyed the ex-soldier across from him. _Delicious_. _Nothing more achingly beautiful to watch than a person's whole world dying in front of him_. Front row, too. And to know that _he_ was the cause of this emotional diarrhea….bliss! He suppressed the urge to lick his fingers of the last crumbs of the doctor's heartache before denial took over and stole the show away.

Jim watched as John's gaze, previously aimed to the floor in shock that evolved into haunting despair, finally found its way back into the madman's field of vision. And now those murky blue eyes were hard, like bedrock forever frozen beneath an icy tundra. Resolved. Determined. _Ah, he's figured out the game I'm playing. Check_, ran behind Jim's eyes. He smiled across at the doctor beguilingly, inviting commentary. But the vehicle remained silent for now. _Alright_, thought Jim, _let it stew a bit then. That kind of blow can't stay inside forever._ He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, completely at ease with having an enemy seated so nearby. _Unless the good doctor desires ulcers and gas! _His chuckle was mostly to himself, but it did slip out as partially audible.

John's eyes narrowed, and his hatred intensified. How could he hate this man any more than he already did? It seemed impossible to him…but then, many things concerning Sherlock and Jim Moriarty seemed impossible at the outset. He redirected his thoughts. How to approach this? His directness had netted him nothing but more of the criminal's "playfulness," such as it was. And his stomach rolled at the thought of further demonstrations of the reprehensible man's intellectual foreplay. So he remained silent as the sight figure before him leaned back and closed his eyes. His thoughts skimmed over all of the things he had gleaned from Jim's speech and actions so far. Not exactly a wealth of useful information, but it was all he had. But his thoughts kept revisiting one concern in particular. The _only_ true concern of his, really. More so than his own wellbeing. Sherlock.

"Where?" John's lowered voiced drifted across to the almost-dozing criminal. Jim's eyes snapped open, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, though he tried to hide his true pleasure at the prospect of engaging once more with the man before him who was, literally, the only other possible competition for the attentions of a certain consulting detective. Cocksure Moriarty might be, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate repeatedly reassuring himself of his own brilliance through the mental domination of an opponent.

"Mmm, yes?" he drawled out lazily, as if nothing in the world was of any concern to him.

"Come off it. No games. Sherlock. Where is he? He's still alive; so what next?" And John went silent, waiting for the reply. In the end, John had realized that this man who matched Sherlock neuron for neuron would never be fooled by any guile _he_ could weave.

Jim sat up straight, eyeing the man before him with a different scrutiny than before: the ragged appearance, the recently developed lines about his mouth and eyes that spoke of terrors and fears only newly realized, the alternating tensing of muscles all over his body…. These would have all passed unnoticed to anyone else. Well, except perhaps Sherlock, of course. All signs he noted were further confirmation of the onset of the deepest of emotional ties. That word that meant security, togetherness, loyalty…..ugh. Jim weighed his options, and he decided to just answer. And plainly. After all, the truth, when discovered, would probably hurt more than any innuendo ever could, especially in light of this new attachment the doctor seemed to have. The criminal felt buoyed up with anticipation. _Where is he, John? Right where he should be…._

"He's back at…my place. In good health, I assure you. And he is currently undertaking a task for me that will humiliate a certain person I have taken notice of lately. And will be the cause of much mayhem relatively soon." John heard, but fought against the urge to contradict the man. What would it gain him to argue at this point anyway? He debated options internally. _Just focus. Get as much information as possible. Keep him talking. Something inane. Innocuous_.

"Uh huh. He's working. For _you_? And who is it that's helping him while you're away? He's very…needy…when he's working, you know. Always has me sending texts and fetching things from his pockets for him. Very dependent." John was going for nonchalance with the topic, but his body language was still failing him miserably.

"Oh, I think he'll be just fine on his own, doctor. He's really something _special_ to watch when freed of certain…_moral_…constraints." The word was spoken with cultured disdain. "Perhaps this 'dependence' was just a result of your crippling influence in his development?" Jim teased, looking for the verbal blow's landing. But instead, he saw John's expression change not to anger, but to worry. Odd. He tilted his head, analyzing this strange bit of data as John spoke tentatively.

"You, um, left him…somewhere?"

"Mm, yes, I do believe I _just_ said that."

"Alone."

"Yes."

"Without supervision."

"There _are_ guards within the grounds, but essentially, yes. They have orders to let him do as he pleases." A smile followed that statement as Jim realized another jab he could throw. "So you see, if he truly had wished to return to you, he would have done so _long_ before now. Sad really, you waiting on something that will never happen," Jim spoke with a partial lie, but fun nonetheless.

And much as the implication that Sherlock wasn't choosing to return stabbed at him, still John was able to pick through his emotions and get back to the one that was truly important at this time: Sherlock Holmes. Alone. With seemingly lowered moral inhibitions. He didn't know what scared him more. That, or the madman seated across from him. But John pursued the topic doggedly, his breathing coming harder as he considered the possibilities. The ramifications…..the mess! And he spoke haltingly, almost unbelievingly, unable to get it all out at once.

"You left. Sherlock Holmes. Alone. In a place where I'm assuming he has access to resources maybe greater than those even his brother commands?" John asked. In truth, it was half question, half accusation. And even though there were then no halves left, it was _also_ half shocked exclamation. "Are you _totally_ insane?!" he yelled across the short space. Moriarty merely lifted an eyebrow at the question as if to invite John to retract a line that should be more rhetorical.

"What?" The criminal seemed genuinely perplexed as to the nature of John's concern.

"Do you have computers there? Internet?"

"What kind of a consulting criminal would I be if I couldn't take my headquarters with me at the drop of a hat? Of course."

"He'll be on them, you know. And everything else."

"He already has been. Played a bang on game of Pong. But that was just the once."

"Nope."

"What? 'Nope' what?"

"If he was on it once, then he's been on it a hundred times."

"Well, I've got computer _experts_ to keep him from causing any true harm. He'll only _think_ he's getting away with something."

"Nope," John said, shaking his head. "He's better than them. They won't even know it." Jim's brow drew down, but the criminal decided it mattered not. He hadn't had any reports of unusual activity on any of his fronts from informants, so whatever Sherlock did on the net, it had nothing to do with him. _Probably downloading more games_, Jim thought to himself with a hint of hilarity. Perhaps he'd try a game or two with him? He sighed. John was simply trying to turn the tables and get a rise out of him.

"He's fine to do whatever he wants, John, truly. I'm not concerned. I told you. He's different. He's…mine." _Two can play at this game of provocation_, thought Jim. "You should be more concerned with your own safety…." The criminal leaned back once more, and then left John with a last word of caution, laced with threat. "And John? Earlier?" Jim's voice dropped low with threat and restrained violence. "Don't ever…_touch_…me, again. _Ever_." Chocolate eyes blazed for a second, and then closed off the rest of the world.

The doctor watched as a sort of disgusted shiver worked its way out of Jim, making John wonder just what in the hell was EVER going on in that man's mind. But he shook his head of that contemplation and began working over other problems, with the threat of Jim's last words hanging between them heavily, ever present.

However, John's thoughts weren't concerned with who could insult whom. No. Nor his own safety. Negative. His mind was centered around the fact that Sherlock, who already had a somewhat tenuous grasp on ethics and morality, who was a known rehabilitated drug user, had been left alone (and apparently uninhibited) in a place where he would have access to just about _anything_ he could dream up. John shivered at the thought as the car bumped along the road, bringing him closer to those possible outcomes.

_Anything….._

They arrived a good deal later than John had supposed they would. He had tried to utilize his military training to get a bearing on his location by tracking the many turns, the quality of the roadways, the sounds along the trip... But the word-dueling with Jim, and the subsequent discovery of Sherlock's unsupervised state, had thrown him off just enough to make him only vaguely certain of the direction they had taken. He glanced once more at the blackened windows, wishing for just one glance at his surroundings. But it was in vain. Motion drew his vision to the spot across from him as the vehicle began to slow. Jim pulled free a long scarf and threw it at the doctor.

"Cover up, dear. Wouldn't want you to spoil the surprise of where you'll be staying." John looked at the other man with a sarcastic glare, as if questioning his decision to allow a captive to tie on his own blindfold.

"Oh, Johnny boy…tut tut. If I even _think_ you can see _anything_ before we get inside…" Jim leaned forward, "I'll take away that scarf and use your intestines instead." He sat back primly. "Now. Put it on." And the ex-soldier complied, figuring it wasn't worth the argument. Plus, he still had to figure he was worth something alive since there had been no real mention or sign of obvious threats to his life or person. So therefore, he would just cooperate for now. However, his hands moved into the age old symbol for "fuck off" before he lifted the material to his eyes. No reason to be _too_ accommodating in his cooperative efforts. This, of course, earned him a return to his previously restrained state, wrists bound loosely. But at least his hands were secured in the front this time around. Things were looking up!

Jim stepped smoothly from the car, eyes scanning all around them as he then turned and grabbed John's arm to tug him in the direction he intended. Not the front, but the side. He still was uncertain of the effects seeing John in person might have on the detective. He was certain Sherlock wouldn't remember the ex-soldier, but there was certainly no point in taking stupid chances and then having to dispose of his prisoner. And besides, if he really was honest with himself, a secret desire of his was to eventually have fully corrupted the detective and have the memories returned only to have the man stay with him anyway. It would be the ultimate win. And it would need an audience, hence his desire to not have to kill Watson just yet. Sure, having Sherlock at his side even now was thrilling in its implications to the outside world. But they would all catch on eventually. Mycroft, Greg, John…those who knew the detective well would recognize that he wasn't himself. Wasn't whole. And not acknowledging John would be a dead giveaway. And so, they went in the back door.

As the doctor stumbled out of the door, Jim's mind marinated over the two possible endings of his final problem:

1) Sherlock, as he was now, corrupted, but never knowing what he was like _before_; never acknowledging the horror of having been subjugated by his greatest enemy.

2) Or Sherlock, corrupted, with _full knowledge_ of all that came before. His mind followed down the path of the more desirable second ending, finding that it also had two forks:

a) Sherlock, shamed and humiliated and wretched in the knowledge of what he had been tricked into doing.

b) Or Sherlock, finding out but still choosing to remain at the criminal's side… _Oh_. He shivered.

The thought of his enemy's subjugation followed by a willing compliance, cooperation…oh, if he didn't stop, then he'd need a cold shower! Really, Jim was passingly fascinated at the reactions his body had to Sherlock's presence. His frankly disgusting and horrifying childhood had rendered him into a state where he sometimes wondered if his body still functioned in a sexual manner at all. Certainly, he could put on a good showing of talk combined with action and gesture, but there was generally nothing going on below the belt line during these performances. And the performances themselves were just that: useful for intimidation or mind games, but leading nowhere in truth. But here, with this man, this puzzle, this problem…_interesting_. Perhaps he'd explore that later if the opportunity arose.

He pulled John to the side with him, heading for a side entrance that was probably for the staff when the previous owner had been in residence. Thus far, he had only seen Sherlock bother with two or three areas of the mansion, well away from this portion, and this path would lead them around those inhabited regions so that he could secure John somewhere until he could decide what to do with him. _Probably just dump him somewhere that the Yard can pick him up_, he thought to himself. A dead John Watson would take all of the victory out of the conquest, after all. Better that he was returned to the relative safety of Baker Street. And what better than to be able to know that the person who idolized, cared for, and even loved, Sherlock Holmes was out there _writhing_ in the agony of Jim's conquest? Yes, the better to have him dumped back by London. That DI fellow would pick him up, commiserate with him. Maybe they'd even cry a bit? Jim felt an almost sexual thrill run through him at the thought of the emotional pain they would know. And the elder Holmes? Ha. Hard to say with that one. He cared for Sherlock, yes, though it was shown in odd ways. Maybe the man would finally shit that concrete shard he'd had up his ass now for years? Jim chuckled at the thought of Mycroft Holmes wiping an arse bloodied by the passage of a spiky concrete brick.

He kicked the door open and guided John through. The car's driver took up a position inside the door, and once it was closed, Jim reached up and pulled free the scarf. John's eyes immediately began to take in the scenery, scanning for any identifiers.

"You can try, Dr. Watson, but I had them remove anything telling from the areas you'll be seeing." And John glared back, knowing he was right. Jim smiled and pivoted to begin walking. They passed through several narrow back hallways in a slightly circuitous route before finally emerging in what appeared to be an intimate dining room (intimate here meaning that it was hardly larger than four regular dining rooms). Jim ran his finger across the table as he passed, frowning at the dust that coated his finger when he lifted it for examination.

"Hired killers aren't much for cleaning, I suppose," the criminal sighed in mock despair before another item off to the side caught his eye. He paused. A sock. What? John stared after him as the criminal stooped to pick up the offending item, Jim's face for once genuinely puzzled as he resumed walking and laid it down over the shoulder of one of his men who was passing by on rounds. The man never batted an eye at such weird behavior. John imagined they had seen much worse, though. And thus liberated of their mystery stocking, they passed on into the adjoining room… Wherein they found another sock. The match.

John watched as Moriarty didn't bother to pick this one up, just flipping it aside with the toe of his shoe. And the doctor's mind set to wondering what further sort of oddness would eventually greet him at the hands of his captor. While in the hands of the younger Moriarty sibling, he had had a fair idea of what would happen to him; not that he wished for a return to that state! But there was something to be said for having a stable enemy; a predictable one. It was one thing to be kidnapped by a normal bad guy type; but this was James Moriarty, self-proclaimed as being "Soooooooooo changeable!" John expected that the evil little twat could alternately tell him he would be set free, or shot dead, or set on fire in the middle of an ant bed covered in honey, and John figured he wouldn't be surprised at any of the scenarios. And so he brooded and stewed over the possibilities, and asked of himself one million questions of how he would get out of this. How would he survive? When could he strike? Did he even need to? Why hadn't he accepted a tracer when Mycroft had offered it? Had they noticed his absence yet? And just _where the hell_ was Sherlock?

They continued on, this time entering a series of rooms that appeared to be set up for stock trading. More than likely, this was left over from the previous owner. Moriarty was hardly the type to play the finances game by the rules. If he wanted money, he would just take it. As if he needed any more, John was thinking as his eyes ran across something that caused a small gasp to escape his lips. Moriarty noticed it at the same time. A Belstaff. No. Not just '_A'_ Belstaff….. _His_ Belstaff.

John's eyes quickly swept every corner, and his muscles tensed, ready. If Sherlock was near, and there was even the slightest of chances…he would be prepared. But no one else was in the room except himself, Jim, and one of those Gorilla men taking up their rear. His stomach remained clenched nonetheless, and John noted with some interest that Jim had reacted in surprise as well. _Didn't think we'd encounter him in this part then, did you_? thought the only reassured him even further that he had been right all along. Sherlock _was_ being held against his will. Moriarty was lying. Otherwise, why bother to hide John's presence from the detective? Funny how a simple article of clothing could be so reassuring, but there it was.

After but a moment's pause, Jim seemed to make up his mind to proceed forward, walking as though deep in thought. John stared after him, finally picking his feet back up to follow. John thought quietly to himself that Moriarty having deep thoughts…well, that could never be a good thing….what could possibly be circling within that sewer of a mind?

The sock had been odd. The second had no chance of being coincidence. The coat…now Jim was worried, and so he thought through the probable occurrences during his absence from the grounds as he walked onwards. He didn't even bother to check that Watson was still behind him. The man would follow. There was no reason not to. Obviously, the soldier in him had figured that he had some value, and that that value would be revealed eventually. But Jim had no intention of revealing to John just exactly _why_ he held any worth in the criminal's eyes. That would be discovered on his own, later, when it would be far more delicious.

They were almost to the suite of rooms Jim had chosen to detain the doctor in until he could arrange for someone to make a run out and drop him somewhere suitably dramatic. His legs carried him through the recently made familiar hallways, set on autopilot as the intelligence behind his brown eyes flew across plots so vast that he even he himself got lost in the planning at times. To the exclusion of all else, his focus was on the internal, leaving the body functioning on its own, only peripherally aware of the outside world of flesh and time. Until he passed the room to his left…and stopped.

John almost ran into him from behind at the abrupt change in velocity. The man following them was far enough behind that he halted a good ten feet to their rear, escaping the embarrassing spill John had just managed to avoid. Jim was hardly aware of any of this taking place behind him. His mind was focused instead on something he had just noticed. Some inconsistency. He took a few steps backwards, causing John to step out of the way, curiosity written plain across his annoyingly open face. Jim's back steps took him to line up with the doorway he had just passed. And he paused, holding perfectly still as he peered through the opening.

It was a game room of sorts. Dart boards stood out along walls that reared a good forty feet away from the doorframe. There were about three pool tables, two ping pong tables, and some scattered tabletops of varying sizes which were most likely for card games. All looked as if they hadn't been touched in months. A full out bar was lined up against one of the opposite walls, looking sad and neglected of human contact. Jim had only seen this room perhaps twice before, but as with most things, he only had to see things once, at most twice, to enable him to recreate it with almost perfection within his mind. Thus, something was out of place, and his awareness had marked it. Now all he had to do was get his conscious mind to translate the difference to him.

His eyes swept from one side to the other, slow and meticulous in their examination. John stood silently at his back. _Probably calculating how many ways he can kill me_, Jim snorted softly to himself. Wait! Ah, there it was. And he almost laughed at the conspicuousness of it. He began to walk in towards the discovery: feet. Pale feet, plantar surfaces facing the ceiling, toes wriggling, almost chest height up the wall. Ankles and calves were revealed as he came closer. And he almost tripped as his shoes became entangled in something. He snarled slightly as he looked down, and then widened his eyes in confusion. Trousers? His gaze rose, and he started forward again, finally coming around the pool table that was occluding his vison. And he found..…Sherlock?

The detective lay with his back flat on the floor, ass against the wall, legs supported vertically up, and um….naked… Well, as good as anyway. He wore only his thin pants, and even they were sliding down low over the tops of his thighs. Jim's thoughts weren't on the impropriety, however. His gaze quickly assessed the rest of the man before him. Correction: the rest of the _giggling_ man before him. Brown eyes evaluated everything from the detective's nonsensical laughter, to the expensive Armani button up shirt that he had wrapped around his head like a turban, to the slight line of red that ran in a downward arc from the inner forearm {_not flaking yet, so it's still fairly soon since it bled_}… This inevitably led to the evaluation of the harshly beating pulse in the side of the detective's neck, the slight sheen of sweat covering his already too-pale skin…and the empty, discarded syringe jammed into the dartboard above those dancing toes. Jim sighed, loudly.

Sherlock's eyes slid open, scarily blank for a moment, and Jim berated himself once again for the use of opiates with his initial memory erasure cocktails those first weeks. The effect it would have on an addict should have considered. Oh well, he rolled his eyes at the fallacy of men; especially tall, naked, giggling, genius men. And a deep baritone interrupted his self-critique.

"Jim? Jim!" Sherlock rolled over, or fell depending on one's definition of 'rolling,' and attempted to get to his feet quickly, which was obviously a mistake. "You wouldn't…you wouldn't _believe_ what I found!" The staggering detective launched himself into Jim's arms, grabbing him by the shoulders as if they had been best friends for life. Then the detective released the criminal and returned to the wall, running his hands across it slowly in a caress. "I was watching them only a minute ago, but you and your friends must've scared them away." He glanced back, seeing Jim's face. "Spiders, Jim. Great, enormous beasts of burden they were! I was calculating how quickly they spun webs above me as compared to the normal breeds when you interrupted them." Jim remained flat faced. "Jim, who's your friend?"

The criminal's heart leapt into his throat as he turned to see an alternatingly overjoyed and horrified John Watson entering through the doorway now that he had figured out who Jim was interacting with in the game room. _Shit_. He heard Sherlock's voice once again.

"He looks like someone I've met before. Is he a friend of yours? Why are his hands tied?" Even the detective's speech sounded wrong right now. And Jim quickly found his own voice.

"No, Sherlock. No. He's no…friend. But I'm just taking him to his room, and then I'll be back, and we'll…see to you," the criminal said with an obvious uncertainty lacing the words. But the detective's eye had taken in something about Jim, and he strode over, slightly unsteady, stopping just before him and raising a hand, pointing at Jim's lip. And then his neck.

"Who did this?" came the demand. Jim started to laugh at the silliness of the situation, but Sherlock stopped him, emotions switching in a swift mimic of Jim's own tendency toward bipolar. Anger swiftly clouded the sickly pale features as his fingers swept lightly over the marks on Jim's body. "Who. Did. _THIS_?" he demanded, eyes eerily gray, flat, dead. And then those same orbs found John, within whom horror had won the previous emotional battle. He had stopped approaching when he got to within a few feet of the two other men, the gorilla man/agent having remained in the hallway until called for, knowing his boss preferred to handle things himself at times.

While the detective and criminal had been speaking, John had been fighting an internal war. The doctor's mind had attempted traversing the grief stages at least three times already, but he kept getting stuck, never making it to the last stage. Denial, bargaining, depression, anger….. denial, bargaining, depression, anger….denial…depression…anger….depression….anger….anger…ANGER.

Muscles tensed, fists clenched. John's mind flooded over in red tones as he looked on at the destroyed man before him. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, reduced to the state of a common street druggie. _No. NO! God, no!_ And the one responsible, the man who had enabled this, stood before him chatting away with the detective as if there were no cause for concern here at all. Did he not realize what he had done here?! His face was flushing red, he could feel the heat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight off the desire to attack; the need for action. After all, his hands remained tied in front of him. Not exactly the best of conditions to be fighting in. Jim and Sherlock continued speaking before him, as if he didn't even matter.

"Was it _him_?"

"Sherlock, why don't…"

"Was. It. Him?"

"Didn't you do the bank work I set you to? The puzzle? The one for me, that took me 17 hrs?"

"Finished it in three. Was. It. _Him_?" Sherlock gesticulated toward John in a very dramatic manner.

"I…" Jim almost said 'wow' out loud. And he would have meant it. Truly. _Three hours_… While he _could_ attribute part of his own long time solving it to generally screwing off…..still, he didn't think even his real time solving it would have been anywhere near _three_ hours. Suddenly, it was very important to him that Sherlock _not_ behave like this. _Not_ be a drugged lunatic. A mind like that was beautiful. Pristine. Perfect. He would rather examine it _outside_ of the encasing skull than have it abused as it was now, under the influence of God only knew what.

He turned to face the doctor, determined that he would placate Sherlock by a show of speaking with John in familiarity so as to dispel his suspicion somewhat. But as he turned his gaze upon the sandy haired ex-soldier, he saw John's decision, his very thoughts, as clear as if they were words on a page. They read: _Fuck it_. And suddenly, Jim had his arms full of an army doctor bent on his demise. _Should have tied those wrists better_, he mused as he saw the restraint go flying, but he hadn't expected this level of resistance from John. Not yet at least. He wrestled the man sideways, quickly realizing that he never should have allowed the doctor so close, much less taking him by surprise, especially since he was now engaged with a stronger and slightly larger opponent.

He was rammed into the wall behind him, John stepping slightly back once, quickly, to draw back and land a solid blow to the side of Moriarty's jaw. Stars clouded his vision shortly, and then there were hands on his throat. What _was_ it with people wanting to choke him? He twisted, almost dislodging the grip, one of the hands falling away, and reached up to try for his attacker's eyes. All he got was another side punch to the other jaw, and a repeated slamming into the wall behind him. He heard John say something like, "You bastard!" A fist landed in the criminal's stomach just seconds after a third slam. And then a knee. And more would have followed, except then…Sherlock was there. Jim gasped in air as he watched the detective's form interpose between himself and his attacker. And Christ, was he frightening.

John found himself crashing to the floor, with the detective landing solidly on top of him and driving the air from his lungs. And then he was screaming as the taller man's teeth found his shoulder, biting deep. He managed to pull away and roll before irreparable damage was done. Luckily, even though the drug in Sherlock's system seemed to lend strength through adrenaline bursts, it also had him suffering from a bit of incoordination. He thought of what to say, and he opened his mouth with the intent of speaking to Sherlock, reasoning with him. But when he looked over at his best friend as they both struggled to regain footing first, he was almost defeated.

There was no recognition in those eyes. No acknowledgement. No…_anything_ really. At least not anything familiar. There was something different, though. Something new. Something…terrifying. Sherlock began to walk slowly towards him, his face set in hatred, animal in its primal state. He carried John's death in his eyes. And the doctor took a step back as he began to understand the new thing he was seeing within his friend. John's eyes flicked back and forth from the visage of the now almost-recovered consulting criminal to the approaching changeling, once his friend. Sherlock. Jim. Sherlock….

And the criminal saw it happen, once again reading minds, as the realization washed over John. The poor doctor's thoughts were to Jim like water to a dying man as he understood part of Moriarty's game, _The same; they're the same. No….._

And then Sherlock was launching himself at John again, and they clashed together, with the detective thankfully just unbalanced enough from the drugs that his well-concealed talent at open-handed fighting availed him nothing. An arm swung around from John's left, and he ducked low, trying to trip up the taller man. No results. Further appendages came flying in, set on causing maximum damage, if John were to judge based on the areas being focused on. John himself concentrated mostly on deflection, not wanting to hurt his friend badly, but slowly seeing his choices narrowing as he tried. It was so much more effort to _not_ harm an opponent bent on doing _you_ harm. A blow suddenly connected to his jaw that he hadn't been able to turn out of quickly enough. And then another landed to his side. He quickly backpedaled and bumped into another other wall.

Kicking out, he caught Sherlock in the hip, spinning the tall man and causing him to crash beside John, instead of into him. But the detective flung his arm out at the last, landing a forearm across the doctor's clavicle and throat. John choked for a minute, and attempted to grab and restrain the frenzied man beside him. But Sherlock had similar ideas, his reach longer than John's. And those long, musician's fingers wrapped around the shorter man's throat. And there was a part of John that almost wanted to give up right there, as he struggled to pry open at least one of those surprisingly strong hands. The change in this man was lamentable. It sickened him to the point of wishing an end, whether it be death or otherwise. As long as it brought some sort of ending to his conscious thoughts, and the pain that accompanied them. His vision swam as he struggled. He knew seven ways to break a hold like the one Sherlock was currently working him into. Unfortunately, each one significantly disabled and/or killed the attacker…..

And John Watson would die before he ever hurt Sherlock Holmes.

He blinked, reaching that point in one's struggles wherein the mind becomes strangely almost inebriated. Was that…? His eyes squinted, trying to see around his friend, who was killing him. He earned a slam into the wall for it, letting out a grunt of air. And then he was falling free, sliding down the wall. Coughing, sputtering, gasping, he looked up from his hands and knees position. _I died_, he thought. _Heaven's having one over on me_. Because as John gazed upwards, he saw James Moriarty standing behind Sherlock, restraining him violently as he called out to his much confused, and apparently useless agent.

"Bring Dr. Watson to his room for me, would you?" Or at least, it sounded something like that to John. But he still felt the room spinning, so he wasn't quite sure of anything right now. He felt himself pulled to his feet, and the room tilted with him. He staggered into the agent, who pulled his arms behind him and grasped them in one huge, beefy hand. A gun muzzle was felt next, right in between his shoulder blades. But even then, he almost fell over again.

Jim laughed as he watched John teeter. With the exception of being attacked himself, this had been more fun than anything he'd done lately. The criminal's smile broadened as he felt the detective fight his hold, bucking unsuccessfully. As John regained his equilibrium, the criminal had one final parting gift to give, though it was not a material possession. No. It held so much more power than anything tangible. It came to Jim as a last minute idea, but a fine one indeed. As the doctor looked on in a sort of half-dazed state, Jim released Sherlock, grabbing one arm as the larger man began to fall forward, and spinning him around. He slid a quick hand about the detective's waist, pulling their bodies together and grinning up into the slightly confused countenance. Moriarty spoke, and John knew the words were for him, though the other man didn't face him as the criminal leaned in and flicked a tongue slowly up the length of Sherlock's throat. The taller man's head tilted, allowing freer access, causing Jim to smile with evil purpose as he spoke.

"You understand now, doctor?" The criminal's free hand ran up along Sherlock's side, the detective's eyes sliding drunkenly shut as he did so. "Erased you," he continued. The hand rose higher to run a finger along the underside of the detective's jaw in a possessive gesture, and he whispered hatefully, "_Replaced_ you."

And it was as if the criminal's words transcended the intangible, hammering into John's very soul and twisting the contents of his pericardium until it felt his heart had stopped. Breath came awkwardly, painfully. _There really is such a thing as broken heart syndrome, Sherlock; kills people just like any major cardiac condition,_ John remembered recounting this to the detective during a particularly puzzling case. He had been glad that day to actually know something that the genius didn't. Now, he thought it likely that he himself would see a similar fate firsthand.

His eyes were locked onto the detective's face as the agent behind him tried to steady his wobbling more effectively. John was searching, searching. There had to be _something_. Anything. _Please_! But there was no answer, and he found he couldn't move, rooted to the spot. He felt bile rise up in his throat as he watched Moriarty stroke a hand down the side of his friend's face, with Sherlock turning into that touch as if he wanted it, needed it… And it seemed Jim's agent had sensed that his boss wanted John to witness this intimacy, feel this anguish, because he made no move yet to drag him from the scene. The doctor almost cried out as Sherlock then raised a shaking hand of his own in a precise mimicry of the criminal's previous touch, reaching a bit farther, though, to tangle his fingers in the criminal's hair.

Too much. It was all too much. How far gone was Sherlock? He didn't even seem to recognize John in any sense. No street drug was powerful enough in a single dosing to do that kind of damage. So…. _What's been done to you, Sherlock?_ His soul bled out slowly on cold marble flooring as he watched the taller man's gentle touch run across the skin of one whom John would dig the heart out of bare-handed if granted the opportunity. His own heart crumbling to ashes, John began to turn away as Jim flashed him a sinful smile and angled his face sideways a bit to place a kiss along Sherlock's inner forearm. The doctor stepped forward to pivot just as Jim's lips made contact with his friend's skin, causing a small sound to escape from the detective's mouth. Sherlock's arm twisted slightly, as if the contact caused both pleasure and tickled. And John saw…John saw…

The doctor tripped in mid-pivot, the agent behind him cursing and pulling him back up. John felt his heart thud painfully. Once. Twice. The electrical current and automaticity of his heart sending painfully sweet bolts through his chest as he felt his life restart itself. He tried to cover his slip, schooling his expression back into despair, as he completed the turn and marched out before the large gorilla of a man. But inside…inside…his determination roared back to life with a power to rival the strength of the Thames. It grew inside of him, and then he banked it low in order to conceal what he had seen. That brief instant had been all he needed. When Sherlock's pale arm had turned, and John had seen the scar carved purposefully through the integument. It was a name. His name. JOHN.


	24. Chapter 24

Jim looked on with a sort of malicious glee as Dr. Watson was led from the room. Any recent or potential future encounters with Jim's younger sibling were blown away under the sheer giddy force of his…his…was that…_happiness_? Yes! His mind spun. Pleasure, pure and simple, almost childlike in its fits of intensity, rushed through his veins. Was this what it was like to be high? _Surely not_, he rethought as he looked up into the drugged and lazy-lidded eyes of Sherlock Holmes, so close to his own right now that he could pick out each separate hue from the mix that comprised those curious irises. However, he could definitely see how this could become addicting, this…feeling…this…he wasn't sure. Better to wait, classify later. For now, he chose to just immerse himself in the afterglow of this small accomplishment, this initial coup. After all, he had just touched the detective in a most decidedly intimate and obvious manner (in front of John Watson no less!), and the taller man had made no move to escape, no motions or indications of discomfort… He was winning! Oh, he was _winning_, and it was as if his soul had caught fire and had burned through the man held tightly against him, mixing their ashes together into a gray snowstorm of carbon deposits.

True, the detective was obviously high, not in his right mind, and perhaps a bit suggestible…but still, the rest would follow. Drugs merely lowered the inhibitions so that one could do what one truly wished but normally held back on, right? He thought so, though Jim himself had never experimented with narcotics personally. The thought of losing himself in the cavernous vaults of his own mind had an opposite effect on him than it did on Sherlock. Where Sherlock found clarity and a strange sort of peace, Jim found himself trapped and a victim of his own contained nightmares. But _this_…this was something addicting and not at all mentally restricting. An intake of air, and his buoyant feelings were suddenly interrupted by a name, slowly enunciated as if only half considered before erupting into spoken words.

"James…Aeden…O'Dorchaidhe…Moriarty." The name rumbled forth from deep within Sherlock's chest, spoken in a voice plucked straight from the criminal's oft disturbed slumbers. Jim's shocked eyes found those of the detective, his body freezing up as goosebumps broke out along every inch of him. For the first time in over fifteen years, he had heard his full name spoken aloud. And his outer chills turned inwards, lodging that discomfort solidly within his gut. But the baritone speech continued, the vibrations that originated within the taller man's torso shooting straight through the flesh and bone of Jim's own chest, seeking his soul's familiar echo. "Hmmm, yes. James: supplanter. Aeden: born of fire. O'Dorchaidhe: descended of the dark one….." A long, considerate pause at that last comment, then, "Moriarty: the navigator." And the voice fell silent once more.

The detective hung liquid and flexible in Jim's arms, and the criminal fought his initial urge to shove him away, hurt him, _burn_ him….. His heart pounded beneath his sternum. He had fought for so long to separate himself from his family, both dropping the middle names of his historic clan and opting to use Jim instead of James. He had sought a new home. Had found a new life. Had made himself anew. But they still crept into his life like a poison, a virus never shed. Where had the man learned this? His thoughts jumped back to John's insinuation of Sherlock's computer skills. Surely that was the answer? The detective had just been doing what he always did? _Shut up_, Jim screamed internally, _James hasn't been here; he doesn't know_.

His gaze swept Sherlock's frame, ascertaining that the man he held had not been in contact with the one other person in the world whom Jim knew could still ruin his plans. But still, it rankled the criminal that this level of concern was being raised at the mere mention of his own name. And in that briefest minute, he hated the detective for it, for causing this, whether the fault lay true or not. Jim tensed as he fought within himself. The control he prized so highly almost slipping at the thought that just mere inches away lay the lifesource of his greatest enemy. So easy to just reach out, snuff the inner fire from within the detective's eyes, end this farce of a game….

His hands inched upwards, sliding along the bare arms and torso of the detective so helpless within his grasp. He slid the pad of one thumb across the pulsating beat of the carotid in the side of Sherlock's neck, captured by the thought of how easily life could be ended, the beat stilled. He would be able to see the life flee those jeweled kaleidoscope eyes. His fingers had just begun to apply pressure when the vision of another set of eyes, in another time, flashed before him, frightened and pleading. And Jim's breath drew in sharply at the sight, his hands relinquishing their potentially deadly hold instantly, and he stepped away from the taller man quickly, causing the detective to stumble a bit.

Sherlock seemed not to notice initially, lost within the shifting minefield of the effects of his drug of choice. But as before, the influences of the drug on his mind and body were alternating, rotating, seasonal…and his eyes went from mortar dull to a blasting emerald intensity within seconds, his limbs straightening and his gaze seeking Moriarty as the other man watched him warily, ghosts of some other place and time receding still within the criminal's awareness. And so, Jim did not notice the shift until it reached its potential and Sherlock began to move.

The detective closed the distance between them swiftly, slipping one arm around and down Jim's waist as the other went high for control of his head and neck. And Jim's surprise was completed in the next few seconds as, with but a fleeting moment of thought, a mere narrowing of the eyes, Sherlock brought his mouth against the criminal's own, seeking entrance in a most urgent and decisive manner, pressing in without apology. Such was the shorter man's shock, however, that he was unable to collect even the most meager of nerve impulses together in order to respond to this…whatever it was. But that did not deter the detective, who merely moved his mouth down Moriarty's jawline and onto his neck, drawing something between a yelp and a sigh forth from his mouth. Jim's hands jumped to the shoulders of his oral invader, fingers digging hard into pale flesh.

But though his body seemed preoccupied, Jim's thoughts turned to the reasoning behind this assault. Much as he may wish it were otherwise, the criminal had to admit that Sherlock's inebriated body was probably acting of its own volition, while the man behind the encasing of flesh and bone was probably blissfully unaware of his actions at present. No _true_ victory then. At least, not one to let go too far. And so his arms ceased their insistent pull on the detective, and his fingers loosened a bit, as he began to push away from the other man, meaning to do so before he forgot _why_ exactly he was denying himself such release. It felt…odd; out of character for him to not simply take what he wanted.

The act of sexual congress had held very little mystery or sacredness to it. Not surprising, given his…upbringing. He had been more knowledgeable at eight years of age than those fifteen years his senior. Sex was a duty, bought and sold. His young flesh paid for with paltry fees…and sometimes not at all, if it was a friend of his father's. No, intercourse of any kind was viewed with either disdain or utility. And it undoubtedly held no pleasure in it. For certain, at present, he was a virile young male of 32, and particular bodily functions _did_ occur at times. However, those would either be subjected to his utmost scorn until brought back under control, or…dealt with, quickly, and with a machinelike efficiency.

Acts of a sexual nature, even those of just general attraction such as flirting or courting, fell flat with the criminal. He saw them as tools to be used, nothing more. His touch and caressing of Sherlock in front of John had been more about a show of power than any real emotional attachment to the lustful acts themselves. Much as rapists dominate and steal power from their victims through forced sexual encounters, so too did Jim Moriarty believe of such acts. If he had sex with Sherlock, it would not be about things as unreliable and transient as feelings, sentiment…it would be about subjugation, domination, a final piece of his enemy he had brought low before himself. Nothing more. Ever. That lesson had been ground into his marrow years ago, and remained there as outward facing nails that ripped and tore at his soul. He blinked as those other eyes floated within his mind's visual field once more. There and gone.

His moment of internal self-evaluation as he had pushed the detective away seemed to be taken the wrong way by the taller man who suddenly set his feet and refused to back away any farther. Jim met the churning sea foam green eyes and took in the body language. Feet set, knees slowly bending, flexing. Torso turning slightly. Head lowered just a bit. Jim analyzed each miniscule detail… _What? Oh._ _He's going to…_ "Ooommph!" came the rush of air from his mouth as Sherlock lunged for him, seizing hold of his biceps and swinging him down onto his back on the pool table.

And thusly did Moriarty find himself thoroughly pinned by one Sherlock Holmes. _Drug._ _It's the drug_, Jim thought out quickly, logically. _Its ebb and flow in his system makes him as emotionally volatile as a three year old;_ _causes bursts of activity and lethargy. _He wriggled a second, testing the strength of the detective's grip. _And arousal,_ Jim added to the list as he began to notice every single point of contact they shared, especially one…. But his examination found no weak points in the grip Sherlock held him in, and so he tried to go limp and placid in order to slide downwards a bit, as his backside was only halfway on the table at the moment. But no, the once semi-conscious man above him was now fully in the waking world and held him firm. _Damn_.

Abruptly, Sherlock dipped his head down to slowly lick along the line of the criminal's neck, finishing with a nip that was on the verge of hurting, and finally speaking after releasing the tender bit of skin.

"You push me away….. But isn't _this_ what you've been wanting?" the detective punctuated his last words with a hard thrust of his hips, driving the shorter man's legs and pelvis painfully down into the table's surface. But he gave Jim no time to reply, sealing their mouths together fiercely and biting at the cut on the criminal's lower lip. Jim groaned in both pain…and something else. But he couldn't pull away with his lip between the teeth of the other man. How embarrassingly would _that_ end? He tasted blood, faint and bitter, and belatedly realized that Sherlock was now sucking at the rebleeding crease, running his tongue over it repeatedly.

Jim's mind became a tilt-a-whirl of conflicting pleasure and want, disgust and panic. As if his mind and body were at war with what was the required reaction in this situation. He had never felt anything of this intensity warring within himself before, had no experience to draw from, and he found his body beginning and ending actions within the same neural impulse. Like his brain was short-circuited. He struggled mightily to regain some semblance of control, fingers flexing and clawing at the felt tabletop, his steel trap mind rusting beneath the physical assault of the senses.

But then Sherlock finally ceased his vampiric assault, and James heard the barely audible and huskily whispered word, "_Mine_," as the other man moved back down to his throat. Jim's world fell apart…and his body won out as he grabbed frantically at the detective's waist, attempting to pull him closer, to pull him _through_ his own skin. Finding no easy success there due to their positioning, he freed his arms of the other man's grip, clutching at Sherlock's hair to yank the darkly curled head back up, halting the hot tongue's teasing progression along Jim's clavicle.

But before their lips entwined once more, the detective freed the hold Jim had in his hair and slammed the criminal's wrists down hard against the pool table over his head, sending a jolt of something that was no longer pleasure through Jim's body. And he felt the situation shift, subtly. Trapped. He was trapped. And Moriarty looked up into the darkening eyes of the man above him and felt a cold stab of fear snake through him. It settled within the fore of his mind, making his heart pound harder than any amount of lust or excitement could ever account for. He began to sweat, cold and horrid, as the taller man whispered harshly once more, deep and just on the edge of threatening.

"Yes…_this_ is what you wanted all along, James. Not just my _mind_, but my _body_ as well." The speech was slurred enough that it needed a moment for translation. But the fiercely uttered statement was underscored by yet another thrust, and Jim felt his body pressed ever more firmly down onto the cold surface underneath him. No need to translate, then; the meaning was quite clear. It was becoming difficult to pull in air with how weighed down Jim was, and with his arms above his head. With dismay, he felt his mind begin to seek escape in the fashion of his youth, through a cognitive exodus, conscious thoughts growing faint at the edges.

But Jim didn't _want_ that kind of submissive escapism any longer, and so he fought it as he wrestled his attacker. No, he didn't _want_ this reaction at all, nor the others that followed. Post traumatic stress was not unknown to him. But the knowing made it no easier to control the rising tide of panic that surged through him, and he flailed and twisted and writhed in response to it all, his adrenal glands kicking out at maximum. Those efforts gained him little but joint strain, and he attempted pulling his arms downwards but was blocked by the strength holding them captive. So he shifted his spine around, freeing one leg and then managing to knee Sherlock in the side, once, twice…there! The other man loosened his grip on Moriarty's wrists, and Jim was able to roll and shove the taller man from over himself in one sudden galvanization of motion. And as Sherlock tumbled gracelessly to the side and onto the floor, Jim pushed off of the pool table and made to get away from this situation and all it entailed psychologically, intent on returning with the blackest of murder in his breast. But then, he found he _couldn't_ leave.

Perhaps part of the reason he could not seem to physically remove himself was a deep rooted, dark fantasy? Had the repeated abuses of his early years imprinted a sick and twisted enigmatic sexual desire within his identity? Much as some people desired to be overpowered and then roughly taken, perhaps so, too, did this potential escapee…? Or perhaps he thought he could now reason with the drugged man; outthink him? Or maybe, now that he was fully aware of the violent potential of the chemical's effects on Sherlock, he felt more secure and able to handle the situation? Or…..perhaps it was simply the fingers wrapped tightly about his ankle? Yes, that was most definitely it. _Shit_.

Jim felt himself falling and twisted sideways, landing outstretched away from the taller man, who suddenly released his leg. The criminal quickly flipped over to present his arms in defense, deducing the reason for being let go, as Sherlock crashed on top of him. The detective's weight brought with it a resurgence of internal horror as Jim realized that he could lose this fight, and easily. His limbs began to rebel against cooperating under the sheer press of denial that groaned within his skull. They began to feel leaden and stiff; and Sherlock got ever closer, crawling his way up the last inches of Jim's torso, the press of his long body sending electrical jolts of repulsion through the criminal's abdomen.

The shorter man closed his eyes for a second, trying to block out the sight of someone looming over him, just as others had in the past. He tried to regain a center for his thoughts as he deprived his fear of the visual source of sensory input; and the detective moved his face a little lower and bit down on Moriarty's suit clad shoulder. The shorter man grimaced. With any luck, the drug would cause certain dysfunctional side effects that would turn things in his favor before this went much further. Although, from what he could tell so far, that didn't seem to be the case. His stomach tossed like the North Sea, bringing wave upon wave of nausea and a burning pressure within. _Not. This. Not. Again. Never. _This feeling of helplessness, of complete loss of control, had been locked away with his childhood.He turned his head violently away from the detective, seeking any form of reprieve from the onslaught of memories that held him captive_. _But his body remained in its state of semi-paralysis, uncooperative and jerky.

Sherlock's tongue lathed across his clavicle and over to the acromion process, with the taller man ripping Jim's shirt in the course of seeking out additional flesh. The criminal's breathing was stuttered in such a fashion that someone could easily mistake it for the patterns of passion, though it was anything but. His limbs continued to be mostly unresponsive, making him an easy conquest for the persistent man on top of him. But his mind began to fill with clearer thoughts as his growing animosity finally gained ground over his repressed fears. He would kill Sherlock, Jim confirmed to himself. After _this_, when the detective was…finished…Jim would slaughter him with his bare hands. No more holding back. No more wait and see. No one would ever own Jim Moriarty in that way again and live to remember it. _Blood. There will be blood._ His body shivered more violently. _Everywhere._ His vision blazed with red highlights and tones as he contemplated the myriad ways he could kill a person with nothing but fingers and teeth. Somewhere in his periphery, there was possibly a hitch in the progression of Sherlock's mouth. He dimly registered it through the haze of fury, like so much barbed wire being pulled through his bowels, but then…

Suddenly, Jim's awareness was complete once more as he realized that something had changed. The other man's weight was still across him, and the hands remained about his wrists. But the mouth that seconds ago seemed to be searching for a way to pull his soul through his epidermis had gone slack. Hot breath puffed slowly, deeply, across his chest. And he recognized what was happening with relief, welcoming it breathlessly. His fear receded somewhat into the corners of his awareness as he looked down and saw the detective with eyes closed, jaw slackened, and drool pooling on Jim's own pallid skin. One side of the criminal's mouth twisted up into a sneer of disgust as he disentangled his wrists from the other man's grip and tested the veracity of the detective's sudden slumberous condition. A series of a few well timed shifts and movements brought no response, and also served to almost completely banish the worst of the PTSD. It receded quickly, like waves along the shore, leaving him more angered at himself than anything for letting his past override his own brilliance. It had made a situation that he may have otherwise handled or taken advantage of into a catastrophe. He snorted in disdain at his own weakness, determined to ignore it as best he could. And as a final test of Sherlock's unconscious state, Jim reached out tentatively… and _boinged_ a curl, with no answering reaction. Just for spite, he _boinged_ it again. _So there_.

Once the calm had returned to his mind, Jim also found himself not fearing but fascinated by the potential for violence in Sherlock, now self-evident from the man's own actions against him. Had Jim's own mind not been in the ridiculous throws of psychological imprisonment, then he might have recognized it sooner. Moriarty had always suspected that Sherlock's inner nature was much darker than he let on. Yes, the attack had been a product of the diseased state of a drugged mind, but even a stone cold drunkard would speak a grain of truth at times. So, too, did he now see Sherlock's latent and vicious passion, never allowed within the realm of conscious thinking. The idea spiraled up and pushed the criminal's thoughts on to the possibility of what could be unleashed, untethered. And looking down at the detective's features now, he thought that perhaps Doctor Watson's suspicions had been correct. Jim had interpreted the doctor's thoughts, clear as day, when John had confronted Sherlock earlier. _He thinks we're the same; or something like it…_ And the thought _did_ have a type of pleasantness about it. _Sherlock Holmes. Like me._ He smiled as he slowly extricated himself and softly left the room. Now that he thought on it, he didn't blame the wild haired man sprawled on the game room floor for his actions and assault. No. After all, hadn't Jim himself been encouraging just such behavior…but perhaps with the idea of less physicality being directed at his person? And so, the puzzle then, was how to bring more of this violent potential out in the open? Wonderful. Magnificent. Delicious. There wasn't a sound as he exited the room, swallowed up by the direction of his thoughts.

He passed by several doorways and made multiple turns, body on auto pilot. Left, left, right, left, quick right. _Ah, here_. He crossed through a somewhat plain and serviceable office and stopped at the desk. He bent to the lower drawers and pulled out a…gift. Stolen, yes, but a gift _now_. Leaving the drawer hanging open, he then left the room and proceeded towards an area that seemed a kitchen-turned-lab. His underlings _did_ need space to brew their weapons of choice, be they narcotics or explosives. And he walked to one of the coolers, passing into it and selecting from its shelves as if he were simply at the Tesco. The thought made him chuckle to himself as a memory rose up of the last time he'd actually been in one of those public shopping arenas. _Horrid places, especially the self-check machines, _he shuddered. The last time he'd been in one had ended with him pulling his gun and firing into the screen of the monstrous talking thing. Pandemonium ensued directly after as he had grabbed his bags and walked out as though nothing untoward had occurred. It was decided shortly thereafter, unanimously, that he should no longer subject himself to the mundane business of shopping.

He stepped into the long hallway outside of the make-shift drug lab, checking his coat pocket for his knife. And…yes, there it was. He flicked its blade out, cold and shining; just in case "negotiations" and gift-giving didn't go as planned. He was still livid over letting his emotional and psychological hang-ups of the past dictate his body's reactions in the present, causing him to miss opportunities. But he hoped to catch the detective still somewhat under the drug's effects so as to capitalize on the magnetic pull they often found between themselves. He shifted his offering to the other hand as he folded the knife and placed it back in his pocket. One way or another, he would have Sherlock Holmes. Take him, mold him…by _whatever_ means necessary. Jim had left his mark everywhere else in the world, but none of it had been any kind of a challenge. Yet here, in this mystery of a human man, he had discovered a challenge worthy of study. And his mark on this one…..would be everlasting.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Ah, here we are again. This one gets very dark at the end. Pieces of blood play. Revella sacrificed her sanity to read this drivel, so be grateful and go read her fic "Forever Yours, Sherlock" in homage to her selfless gesture.**

Sherlock lay sprawled in a languorous heap on the floor where Jim had extricated himself from just minutes ago. He tried to smile, but then it turned more into a thoughtful frown. The expression contained more intelligence behind it than his previously inebriated state would have led one to believe, the drug's influence finally on the wan for what should be the last time. He felt the cogs within his intellect begin to catch hold again, and his body slowly but surely returned to his full neuromuscular mechanical control. _Not long now_, he thought. It had been a great deal of time since he had used, and he couldn't for the life of him remember what had kept him from it these past couple of years. It was like he had simply chosen _not to_. Which he easily could, he told himself. But why? What was the point?

He shrugged; at least, that's what it was supposed to be, movements still being a bit awkward. He giggled a bit, still caught within the chemical changes of his brain. Hmmm, what to do? He had enjoyed the little game with Jim. Much more than he had thought he would, if he were to be honest. And truly, he hadn't before realized that he held that kind of coarseness and crudity within. It was…interesting. Something to be studied and examined. But later, when his mind was functioning properly again. The drug he'd injected had been new to the market, with an inane label like 'purple giraffe' or some such idiotic thing. Something Moriarty's much lower worker bees pushed on the streets in countries worldwide no doubt. So Sherlock wasn't sure exactly _what_ he had taken. He had simply informed one of the ignorant cans of meat guarding him that he required injectables. And thanks to Jim's parting orders to them, they had supplied him with anything he asked for. His drug of choice, from years before, had always sharpened his mind and altered his perceptions just enough so that he could see things from what seemed like multiple perspectives at once. This one he had taken, however, seemed more based in emotions and instinctual reactions, intensifying sensations to almost painful degrees. He could feel like a raging inferno one minute, tranquil the next, and hornier than all the teenagers in America right after. There was no rhyme, reason, or pattern. It was as if his emotions had been set on a repeat shuffle.

He cocked his head as a late hallucination passed over his tympanic membranes. A child's laughter, echoing his own. He had had many hallucinations since shooting up tonight, both visual and auditory. This one gave him the shivers, though, and he hoped that was the last of them. One earlier had been the shadowy outline of a man, nothing more. It had not been threatening, no. It had just stood close, very close, as if it knew him. He had almost gotten a sense of protection out of it, which was silly given how smallish the form's outline was. How could someone so much more compact than he _ever_ protect _him_?

And then his mind flashed back over his fight with the strange fellow that Jim had brought home with him, and he readjusted his opinion of smaller opponents. That one had certainly offered up an equal fight! At least, Sherlock thought he had; but it was hard to be sure with the drug having been so high in his system. And with his off-nature reactions to a perceived affront to Jim, there was no telling. _Why in bloody hell did I attack him anyway? Defending Moriarty's honor?_ He snorted in ill humor. What did he care if his nemesis got thwacked around a bit? And that man, the one whose very bearing and form screamed soldier…the man had looked at him like Sherlock had killed a loved one right in front of him. It had been a horrified look, and the detective could see words birth and die behind those shocked blue orbs that had held his own for the briefest of moments. _Defending my captor from illusory threats and deducing meaningless random men who pass through these halls and attacking them..._ He sighed and dismissed it as another ponderance for a clearer mind to sort out. So he waited.

It didn't last long, this particular chemical. A mere forty-five minutes. He had dosed himself one other time prior to Jim's return, a little over an hour before. The two men's entrance had occurred within five minutes after he had dosed himself again. Good thing it wore off quickly, though. This second dosing would probably be his last of this particular chemical combination. It just didn't accomplish what he desired in a narcotic.

_Maybe twenty more minutes_, he thought to himself, judging by his innate knowledge of his own metabolism and current vitals. He would wait it out, as he had done other times, long ago. The end result of the drug's last effects were of a more relaxational value, leaving him feeling well rested, indolent. The very first fifteen or so minutes were spent on whirlwind emotions, adrenaline surges, and short periods of almost sluggish responses in between the bursts. What market would this be selling on? It was just so…odd. But who was he to question? He pushed up and rolled to his back as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside. _Another visitor?_ he asked to himself as he pushed up, his hands braced behind his back for support. Jim's soft voice broke the silence that flowed within the room as the detective's head turned to track the criminal's second arrival within this last hour. The man moved cautiously inwards as he spoke.

"I have a present for you." Sherlock stood, eyeing the hands Jim held behind his back. "A kind of peace offering, if you will." Not one for lengthy waits, the shorter man brought his hidden burden around, and Sherlock was surprised to see a violin, which Jim promptly flourished, heavy-handed, before the detective. The low lighting glinted off of the deep golden brown finish. Sherlock eyed the criminal's moves warily, noting that the other man obviously knew nothing of handling this instrument, and he took the proffered item gently, turning it in the light to examine the artistry. It was of good craftsmanship, and expensive, too, though not of the make he preferred. Used, but not much, as if its previous owner had gotten it on a whim and then abandoned it shortly thereafter. Not a true violinist, then, but a dabbler or someone who was merely curious or wanted to look cultured.

"Not a Strad," Sherlock commented softly as he ran his fingers slowly down its body, causing a shiver of _something_ to stir in Jim's middle. A pause in those trailing digits, then the detective spoke again, "And it has blood on it."

"Is that a problem?" Jim returned with a blank face. Another recess of sound took wing in the space between before dying once more.

"…No." The detective brought it into position beneath his chin, plucked the strings a few times, and then held out his other hand imperiously, waiting, not even looking to see that the other man had taken the hint.

Jim smirked, then placed the bow into the reaching fingers. And the detective touched it down to the strings lightly, resting, as if waiting for the right breath to begin, or perhaps the right heartbeat. Then…he moved. Slowly at first, arm fluidly sliding along with the almost-silent melody and rhythm of his bow, his body remaining stationary for now. The melody peeled away gently from the delicate wood, soft as a rain shower on flower petals and so much sweeter. It built upon itself gradually, no longer quiet, but definitely never to be considered loud. The criminal tilted his head in appreciation. It turned the shiver inside of him into a warmth that he didn't understand….and yet confusingly desired further contact with.

The wild haired detective's eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed as he eased into the music. His torso turned a bit, this way and that, as if it aided his playing somehow. It gave the impression that the music was not originating from the touch of bow to string, but instead soared forth from Sherlock's well-hidden soul, his heart. He stepped off to the side, as if to begin a waltz…and Jim moved with him, his eyes following every gesture, rapt with a desire that had no name for him. And the detective began a sort of lilting tune that brought with it a lightness to his movements. He stepped again, and again, keeping on until he seemed to be dancing within his own realm of sunlight and mist, woven through the clear air like magic by the notes flowing forth. Jim moved with him, desiring entry, but almost afraid of breaking this moment he was witness to. Sherlock Holmes fascinated him, captivated him. Always had. And these moments…these were to be cherished, as they were private. His dark eyes glinted. And now, they were _his_.

The melody changed to sadness suddenly, and Sherlock's dance faded, seeing him come to a halt, but with shoulders and head still weaving in a pattern of motion that evidenced great loss and never-ending sorrow. Jim stepped before him, looking closely into the features of his supposed nemesis, wondering what it was like to love and _be_ loved as this one before him was. Not that Sherlock realized it, but Jim had seen through John instantly. _So strange_, Jim mused. His own attraction to Sherlock bordered on the obsessive, the intriguing, the fanatical, the….he didn't know. Honestly, he didn't know. It was something he had been over with himself many times. And this was a part of _**it**_…his final problem.

The music poured forth for another few seconds as Jim watched, and studied, Sherlock. And then, just as suddenly as it began…it was over; and silence invaded the eternity of space left behind in the quiet. The bow drew back from the strings, and the taller man's eyes opened as if from a dream. He looked at Jim, standing there before him, with such obvious deadly focus, fixated on Sherlock's every action. And the taller man smiled at the criminal, almost shyly…..bringing the violin up…..and then back down to smash against the side of the table. Wooden bits fragmented outwards as the harsh creak and wrench of the dying instrument shrieked out its protest.

Used to sudden outbursts of violence, though mostly from himself, James didn't even flinch. He did, however, feel a twinge of anger return to him as the detective smirked and said,

"Not my type."

And then suddenly Sherlock found himself marched backwards and shoved down into an armchair a few feet from himself, the bow deftly removed from his hands…and brought to lie firmly against his throat as Jim crossed behind him, pulling it firm for a moment in clear warning. And the criminal leaned down over the back of the chair to press his face against the side of the detective's neck, inhaling deeply as he slid the bow oh, so, softly, across the delicate skin, as if playing his own deadly melody.

"That wasn't very nice, Sherlock," whispered the criminal against his hair, the hand not occupied with the bow was drawing a line up the other side of the taller man's neck. Goosebumps arose along the detective's arms as the other man flitted around to stand before him, keeping the pressure of the bow to the seated man's throat. Jim knelt with one leg on the chair beside Sherlock's thigh, bringing his face back within easy reach. And the criminal continued with a playful sentence, leaning down and placing his mouth near the delicate shell of an ear, "Why, are, you, so, naughty?" The last word was punctuated afterwards by a nip just under the detective's chin.

And as a gasp erupted from Sherlock, he knew it was too late to take it back. He could practically feel Jim smiling from his new position against his throat, just above the bow's press. The shorter man pulled back and placed it lengthwise down the detective's chest, with the end of it suspended over the detective's groin.

Sherlock reached for the bow but received a surprising thwack on the arm for his troubles. "Uh, uh, uuuuhh," Jim chided with a chuckle. He tapped the bow against Sherlock's clavicle with each following word, "You, have, been, un-grate-ful!" The criminal brought his other leg up onto the wide chair, now effectively straddling the detective. And he brought the bow back up and began running it down the side of the taller man's face and neck slowly.

"And the punishment?" Sherlock whispered hoarsely in query. His breathing had quickened, as he knew his pulse had also. And he was not naïve enough to think that Jim hadn't noticed as well. The man before him smiled darkly with his answer.

"Shall be most fitting," growled Moriarty, as he drew the bow lower, and Sherlock's head tilted back against the chair's cushion, eyes to the smallish chandelier above. The detective knew he would be lying to deny his arousal at this treatment. And in a few seconds more, Jim would have palpable evidence of it anyway; damn those thin shorts! And so he asked himself, as he had many times lately, _Why not? Why do I hold back? Who do I hurt by partaking of…this?_ Sherlock abruptly decided he needed to see the person responsible for placing him in this state, and so he lifted his head from the cushion and brought his eyes down from the ceiling…just in time to see the syringe's needlepoint drive into his thigh, just below his shorts. _Damn_.

Sherlock didn't bother struggling, as the damage was already done. In a few more seconds, about twenty-two to be exact, he would begin to feel the thrum of whatever Jim had just given him pulse out through his heart. He only had to wonder why. He looked down at the grinning psychopath, who did a silly little push off of the chair and hopped up, tossing aside the syringe. Jim was looking at him in a very hungry and expectant manner, unsettling in many ways. But then, when was this man anything _but_ unsettling?

A flash of something hot in his chest. _Ah, there it is, _Sherlock acknowledged. And he felt the lethargy begin to press on his mind. Not too strongly, though…so what then…oh. He tried to move his arms and found them barely responsive. _Not for subduing the mind, then, just for rendering the body useless_, he concluded. And so he lay there, awaiting the criminal's next move.

Jim looked to his watch, counting down the time. When three minutes had been reached, he would begin. Not long now…. He decided to pass the time in conversation then, for his own amusement if nothing else. One-sided conversation was better than just staring, after all.

"Not to worry, Sherlock. I'm not killing you….. Not yet. Still much to do, plans to unfurl…all that good old fashioned villain stuff." He reached out and patted the detective's cheek at these words. "No fairy tale endings for you, though." Then he paused, his hand resting on the taller man's chest as he said, half to himself, "But I begin to wonder. Is that even what you want anymore?" Jim shrugged, turning away and sinuously sliding his jacket off of him, remaining in his dress shirt and vest. He unbuttoned the sleeve cuffs to his shirt and checked his watch, a mock-joyful expression on his face.

"Time!" he exclaimed as he reached into his pocket, pulling forth the knife and flicking its blade outward. Its point was already aimed for Sherlock, like a compass to a loadstone. And Jim dipped his head to the side as he walked back over to the detective, smiling ingratiatingly as he spoke. "Come now, my dear man. Is there anything you want to tell me? Hmmm?" The knife switched hands, and Sherlock's eyes tried not to follow it. "Because you know, detective, that I've just realized something in this last little stretch of time."

Jim stabbed the knife into the arm of the chair and plopped himself down in between Sherlock and the chair's overstuffed arm. It was a tight squeeze for two grown men, but luckily, Sherlock was quite thin and Moriarty was of a small frame. The criminal pursed his lips and looked away before turning back towards the chemically restrained man beside him. Then Jim smiled as if sitting beside a long lost friend, wrapping an arm around the detective and giving a tight half-hug before speaking.

"You know what I realized? You've been here, on your own, under what I deem fairly lax supervision, for what? A couple of months?" The criminal laughed. "Time flies, doesn't it?" He removed his arm from around the other man and turned to face him. Sherlock watched from behind almost-blank eyes. No one else would have been able to penetrate the false veil he pretended to, but Moriarty just smiled slyly, knowing the awareness was still present there. "You haven't attempted escape. Not once. Nothing of even the remotest of suspicion. And until tonight, you haven't done anything of the least threat to _me_. And even _that_ was under the influence of outside variables being introduced into your circulation."

The criminal stood and turned back to face his captive, leaning down to pluck the knife from the chair's arm. It left the spot with a soft _thht._ And Jim twirled the blade in his fingers, happily plotting out his next words as he watched Sherlock attempt to not follow the shining metal.

"You need me," Jim began again, lower in tenor and deadly serious, "Or you're nothing." He stopped the twirling, switching to a more conversational tone. "I've told you before. But as usual…did you lis-ten?" he lilted, ending the last syllables in a higher pitch. Then his face turned lethal, intent, and focused once more as he homed in on Sherlock. The notorious shifts in demeanor could have made even the most thorough of psychiatrists resign. He knelt on the floor before the taller man and ran one palm up over a pale thigh, watching as the skin raised tiny prickles in its wake. The criminal brought the knife over the space, hovering, but then shook his head and looked up. His eyes narrowed as he sought something only he seemed aware of. And then he was up and straddling the detective once more, two fingers of his unoccupied hand pressing an indention into the skin two inches below the midline of Sherlock's left clavicle. Jim's eyes glinted with hidden darkness as he whispered.

"You're mine…my detective." His grip adjusted along the blade, held now like a pen or paint brush. "And I shall mark you for the whole world to know this." The knife came up, its point resting lightly against the alabaster of Sherlock's chest and shining sinfully. Eyes that seemed to deny the very existence of life and love and all that was good looked down at the detective, stretching time into an eternity. A kind of raw energy seethed between them. An outside observer might have thought the scene frozen, and as such could note the two separate internal battles being waged. One man fought for control of his body, and..…so did the other. One paralyzed by chemicals…the other by the question of restraint. A tipping point was reached… And Sherlock gasped as the point went in.

Moriarty gasped in tandem Sherlock, though for very different reasons. And his eyes could not leave the line of blood he created as he used his free hand to hold the skin taut. The blade moved unapologetically through flesh, and the detective began to sweat as his throat created the most delicious noises unable to find shape as words. Up stroke, down, then up again, then down. There. Jim gazed down at the beautiful mark he had created, and his tongue flicked across his lips as he watched the blood pool and run downwards. Magical. And the look returned from the detective's starlight eyes may have been pained…but they were also searching. For what? Jim's heart thudded twice, _hard_, as he understood the next step.

The criminal pulled the winter sharp edge across his palm, feeling the warm wetness gather in his hand. Making a fist, he then smeared the fingers of the same hand around to thoroughly coat them in his life, his essence. And his eyes turned back to the man beneath him, the wicked grin back in place as he raised his hand, Sherlock's eyes tracking him the whole time. The fingers splayed wide as his hand pressed against the stark letter 'M' he had carved into his living masterpiece. And when he removed it, fingers spattering tiny droplets downward, the print remained there in all its gory detail. He took his thumb and swiped it gently across the detective's lower lip, leaving their mingled blood coating it. Jim stood back a foot or so, admiring his work. He realized he should leave soon, as he had just discovered a new facet of his personality. And that new interest could possibly kill its point of focus if proper caution was not exercised. His eyes traced the lines he had placed once more.

Finding that it suited his tastes quite nicely, he stepped down into a one knee position beside the armchair, folding up the knife and returning it to its pocket. He ran a finger along the flaccid arm lying in front of him, contemplative for a moment as he listened to the respiratory rate of the detective finally slowing back to normal. He glanced at the floor and then back up, speaking equally to Sherlock and himself.

"Blood, my detective. Telling, is it not?" He raised his sanguine darkened hand and slid a finger in his mouth, his eyes rolling back and softly closing before he let slip a submissive little moan. The finger returned to the air clean. "And I think ours mixes so well," he finished, the deep valleys in his voice giving away his apparent kink for blood play.

"You're…insane," rasped Sherlock, finally able to attempt speech once more, and little else. But rather than come out as a barb, the last word to fall from the taller man's lips was tainted by an ill-concealed curiosity. Much as a gazelle might, in its last few moments of clarity, admire the power and grace of the creature that had brought it down. Jim clapped his hands, smearing the mess between them in the process.

"Well, _this_ has been _fun_!" Jim cried as he hopped up to leave, content to have the detective lay there through his recovery. He needed distance from this intriguing man for a bit…before his fascination let all of the life and light out of the detective in an effort to see more. He traipsed along to the door, passing through it without a backward glance. And one could almost feel the shadows within the room lessen with his absence. Sherlock glanced down at his chest, wondering what in all hell _that_ was about. And seeing as how he wouldn't be coordinated enough to walk very far any time soon, he closed his eyes and drifted, nudged awake periodically by the sharp sting of Moriarty's 'claim.' He could read what the sigil 'M' there said, and what it meant, though it was only a single letter. It meant ownership. Possession. And Jim's voice whispered through his mind as he fell into dreams, _Mine_.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: More drivel for you, my pretties! Revella has given me the one finger salute (you pick which finger) that I can post this. I sincerely hope that the depth of emotions I endeavored to squash into this piece gets across to y'all. If not, well, then get drunk and read it again.

The next day dawned gray and clear, with the kind of sky that seemed as if all pigment has drained out of the universe. The sun shone down dismally through the early October air. Its light a thing of sickness rather than life. Here and there across the great lawns of Moriarty's temporary camp, men could be seen treading the grounds, more alert than mere mercenary grade could account for. Those allowed to follow and serve so closely had earned that right, often violently, but always loyally. Fanatics who were convinced of a sort of supreme chain of command in the world. Difficult to infiltrate, impossible to turn. Perfect for one of Moriarty's stature. He often wondered at their own sense of purpose. He himself would never willingly submit to serving another, and certainly never out of any sense of a "grand scheme" of things. No. In Jim's opinion, he _was_ the grand scheme, the master schemer, and they…fodder. And yet, though his opinion of them was so low, still they followed, served, and even died (often directly _because_ of him). It was ridiculous! But who was he to question the motivations of humanity's finest offal?

Jim had spent the dreary hours of the day conducting his operations from the sanctity of his own bedroom, clad in a most luxurious set of midnight blue cashmere pajamas. He had taken the oddly scrawled notes from Sherlock's makeshift incident room in the library and completed the necessities to stage a most glorious break in. No need to steal anything! Just having his people break through, enter, and then leave the bank in question would be enough to say "fuck you" to the security designer who had severely limited his life span when he had uttered his words of challenge to James Moriarty. The criminal still hadn't decided just _how_ the man would eventually meet his end, but that was alright. The longer the man had to think about it, the more his suffering in the end. _And that's what's truly important in life, then, isn't it?_ Jim chuckled to himself.

Sherlock would surely be in sore repair from the previous night, and so Jim had capitalized on the opportunity to accomplish these things without that constant watchful gaze analyzing his every move. Although, if he were to think on it long enough, he might also have discerned a second reason for his distancing. But that…that was an area he chose to leave uncharted, unexplored. Barren. He flicked his wrist over, checking the hour. 3pm. _Almost time to visit the good doctor before he leaves us for better company_. He closed the ledger book in his lap and set aside his computer tablet, leaning forward with elbows on his knees and hands clenched beneath his chin.

Releasing Dr. Watson _was_ the correct choice. He had to assure himself of this over and over again. Which, quite frankly, alarmed him. His decisions were always quick, conclusive, and final. And yet, anything with Sherlock concerned had his plans evaporating to so much smoke, flowing through his fingers only to dissipate seconds later. He didn't like this uncertainty that he was seeing in himself. It made him feel once more the primal, insistent level of insanity he had only finally escaped just a few years before. He reviled the memories of his loss of control during those years prior, the blackouts, the deaths…one in particular… But even more so, he _hated_ the thought of something taking the detective beyond his reach, his influence, right now. He couldn't have that. Not when he was already filling in the edges of his 'final problem.' He needed the answer to it. Desperately. Urgently. Like a drowning man looking through a shimmering surface to the air above, Moriarty sought the answers to his existence in the mortal frame of one man. In Holmes, he had found a reflection of something that resonated within himself. Possibilities…but of what?

He shook his head clear of these contemplations. He had work to do. Lives to ruin. Hearts to break. _Well, one heart at least_, he thought as got up to dress for the evening. He plucked his choices deftly from the wardrobe and tossed them onto his four poster bed. He stared down at the suit jacket, trousers, tie… _Why do I always look like I'm going to a funeral?_ he wondered absently. He shrugged out of the pajamas and began dressing. _Probably because I cause so many, I suppose_, came his unremorseful answer. Evaluating his life choices wasn't on the agenda today.

John looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed, a sound outside of his room/cell alerting him to possible change. The cooled dishes of a sumptuous lunch fare sat untouched before him. No matter how hungry he was, he had refused to touch anything sent by the man he hated most in the world right now. Not that he thought it would be poisoned. No. James Moriarty would never allow him to simply die without being present for the end, gloating. _Smug Irish bastard_… John simply chose to resist in the only fashion available to him at the moment. At least until after he saw the despised creature again. Then he might sneak something. No sense in starving himself into weakness. But he did want to make a point at least.

His hopes had been lifted only to be shattered on the ground all in the span of maybe five minutes last night. It had hurt, unbearably, to see Sherlock like that. He had never known the detective when he had been an addict, and he was more sure than ever now that he never wanted to. However, _that_ didn't even compare to the slithering ice John felt at the blankness in Sherlock's eyes as those mercury orbs had fallen on him. No recognition. No awareness. Nothing. Like John didn't exist at all to him. And the attack had been salt on the wound, defending Moriarty of all people. John had fought defensively, trying not to hurt his friend. And even though the doctor had come out of the fight relatively unscathed physically…his soul felt shredded, burned, ashen. Then, he had watched in petrified horror as James Moriarty had cradled Sherlock against himself…touching…possessing… And Sherlock had hung there meekly, like a rabbit in a hawk's talons, mesmerized by the sight of his own death approaching. John hadn't known what to do at that point, so vast was the cavern of grief wrought through his heart. Indecision held him in thrall. And so, he had been almost dead inside when he had seen it. A bare glimpse, but it was enough. _His_ name. John….. On Sherlock's forearm. It gave life to the fragile remnant of hope left within the pit of his body's spirit. What it was doing there, and why it was seemingly _scarred_ into his friend's skin, were secondary concerns at the time. All of his desperation had latched onto the image of that small patch of revealed skin. And he held it close even still.

A minute longer, and his hearing was proved correct. He could detect Moriarty's voice from just beyond the door as the man spoke to his guards. The doctor cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, standing as the criminal entered the room, smooth and gracefully poised as always. _You'd think the arsehole went to finishing school_, John groused. Impeccably dressed and groomed, Jim glided through the area completely at ease; every detail seen to, every hair in place, constantly in control of himself and his surroundings. John's eyes flicked to the open door and its unguarded passageway. But nothing escaped the criminal's eye.

"We both know what will happen to your detective should you attempt that, Dr Watson. So why not hear what I have to say? Hmm?" Jim stopped in the middle of the large room, his shoes making no sound as they trod on the expensive Persian carpeting. John crossed to stand about five paces away, muscles tight, shoulders tense. Nothing this man before him had to say was of any trustworthiness.

"The only thing I want to hear out of you is, 'Oh, God. It hurts. I'm dying.' Anything else is meaningless to me."

"So prickly, my little hedgehog! Well, I suppose I would be, too, had I seen what you did..." Jim's eyes were alight with a cruel mischief.

"What are you talking about?" John set his feet shoulder width apart, bracing himself for the attacks he knew would be forthcoming.

"Why, Sherlock, of course. You _can't_ have missed it... In fact, I _know_ you didn't. You normal people are _so_ easy to read. Open books. _Picture_ books, mostly. _Mind-numbing_."

"Still not understanding here. What, do, you, _want_?" John asked, tension and frustration from dealing with this demon given human form was wearing him thin already.

"You, John. I want you to _see_," Jim said deeply as he stepped toward the doctor. "I want you to _see_ everything." He paused a step from the ex-soldier, noting how the other man was fighting to hold every muscle in place so as not to be seen leaning away. "_Understand_…everything." The criminal reached out and plucked an imaginary thread from the other man's jumper, eyes staring steadily into John's. "And then you can _lose_…..everything."

Jim spun on his heels and strolled to the recessed fireplace, running a finger along its mantle and coming to stand over by one of the wall length windows that ran at about two meter intervals along the suite. He gave no acknowledgement to John's glaring, seeming blissfully unaware of anyone else's feelings. His voice was lighter when he spoke again, facing away.

"Funny things, emotions… They seem mostly useless to _me_. But with you…_you_, I can use them to _hurt_ you… And it captivates me." Jim's eyes widened a bit as he stared through the glass. "Look." A pale finger lightly pressed against the crystal surface. "Down there." And John crossed warily to the next window down from the other man to look through.

Just a few dozen meters away from them, Sherlock walked along a stone cobbled garden on the grounds. The downward view from the second floor made it difficult to make out anything concerning the detective's expression, but John felt his heart lift all the same at seeing Sherlock healthy and functional once more. His movements no longer hinted at underlying chemical influences. Then a voice cut through his reverie.

"See how you respond? _Fascinating_. One look, and your heart soars." Moriarty's eyes were intensely studious of him, earnest in their questing for information as he continued, voice lowering to just above a whisper. "What is it like? Having that kind of profound vulnerability? Caring for someone? _Loving_ someone?" His eyes narrowed in distaste. "It seems a horrid weakness to me. After all, here I stand," he pulled a gun from his waist, letting it hang in his hand in idle threat, "And I could shatter your entire world with one well placed bullet." Jim's visage had become clouded, confused, and a bit disgusted by his own lack of understanding as his gaze shifted down to the gun, then back up to John. "_Why_ would you do this to yourself?" And then Jim turned his eyes outward again, facing down to where he watched the detective plucking something from the plants along the path. The criminal's last words were for himself, but John had been alone in a silent room for hours, and so his ears picked up on the almost-inaudible whisper of, "Why would anyone?"

John's mind froze glacier white before clicking back on. His skin crawled with a horrible theory of sensation as he looked more closely at the man who was his captor. The good doctor may not be anywhere close to Sherlock's match in deductions, but he sure as hell could read emotional and nonverbal cues. And what he read here…tore the beating heart from his chest as surely as galvanized steel. How had he missed this before?! The doctor watched Moriarty at the window, not even 2 meters from himself now…and John Watson deduced him. Brown eyes softened, and pupils dilated. The almost permanent smirk was gone, leaving only slightly parted lips. Breathing was altered, different than before. The hand gripping the gun had gone lax. The other hand touched the pane, as if unconsciously reaching out. Body was positioned fully facing the object of study. Posture was more relaxed, inviting, open. Shoes pointed like arrows to their target….. And John's heart fell at the implications of such a target. _Sherlock. Oh. No…._

The ex-soldier's mind reeled. _No no no no no_… This was bad. Very bad. Worse than Afghanistan, worse than body parts left out overnight, worse than waking up married to Mycroft Holmes… He stared openly in shock at the criminal before him, trying to find a way around this conclusion, find a way to dispute it. Jim was still preoccupied with trailing Sherlock with is eyes, so he didn't mind the scrutiny. John's mind played back every interaction, every clue, every mystery laden crime scene, every comment…everything to do with Moriarty's actions toward the detective. Rather than looking at everything through the thin veil of red haze that he normally reserved for the man, John put together all of the clues, some needing readjusting in their respective spaces, but fitting nonetheless. And he found…he found…an understanding of something that both made him violently sick with terror and alternately sigh with relief. Maybe the detective was safer now than John or anyone else had ever guessed? After all, who better to look after Sherlock than someone who cared for him? Because for those ten unguarded seconds, Moriarty had let slip his impenetrable façade…and John saw through it. _He _cares___for him. Maybe even _**loves**_ him_, the doctor thought with mixed horror and wonder. _Or something close to it. Probably doesn't even realize it; and never will_. And then it zapped John's brain like an electric blast through his neurons that if the criminal ever _did_ recognize it….. violent denial would surely ensue. _Shit_.

And then the delayed wave of rage and, yes, jealousy, crashed over John. He closed his eyes a moment at the fury behind it. It would do him no good to go off half-cocked at a man with a gun in his hand, after all. But…damn it all! Sherlock was _his_…or should have been… _Will be_, he corrected himself, ever forcing optimism into situations that didn't welcome such things. His eyes opened again to find Jim staring at him oddly, perhaps sensing the shift in his mood. The gun was held a bit tighter now, John noted. _Well, bugger for him, then_. Then he sighed. _Damn_. _Sherlock…please forgive me for what I'm about to do…to say…_

"You think _love_ is a weakness?" John started, disbelief having him shake his head. "You really are beyond redemption once that possibility is gone." The ex-soldier puffed out a breath, continuing. "How can I explain something so intangible, and based on the belief in another person, to someone who holds none of that in value? Love is something that every living thing needs. Craves. It is what keeps this world worth living in." The beginnings of this impromptu speech had the criminal sneering back at him.

"It destroys logic. Ruins plans. Diverts attention. It's a drain on energy that gives nothing in return. Spawns a lot of good fairy tales, though. Marketability is through the roof," Moriarty quipped. But John was not deterred from his argument.

"It binds us together. Builds us up. Makes us strong. Protects us against untold cruelties," said the ex-soldier, shoulders back and defiant.

"Kills creativity. Brings vulnerability. Makes you dull. Makes you _boring_," Jim retorted in an almost monotone voice, apathetic of the counterpoints made thus far.

"Listen, I don't know what kind of games you play with the rest of the world, or what must have happened to you to make you the way you are, you sick son of a bitch…but nothing you ever say could change the way I feel. And that's true power. You have my body in captivity, yes. But my heart, my mind…?" John waved an exasperated hand in the air and turned from Jim to walk back over to his spot on the bed's edge. "Those things mean nothing to someone like _you_, so I don't expect understanding. But to me…love is like…it's like your soul has only been half awake your entire life until meeting the one that lights your own personal dawn. It's as if you've been away from home for so long that you can't even remember what the wallpaper looks like…until you see _them_…and then, no matter where you are, you _are_ home." He shifted a bit where he sat, gesturing with his hands before him, fighting the inadequacy of spoken words to relay the underlying meaning of what he wanted to convey. "It's like you've had something wrong with you your whole life, an unsolvable puzzle, a _problem_ with no solution," Jim's eyes widened in shock at the use of the word 'problem,' "…and then someone comes along and provides the answer, giving you a whole new perspective of life." John carded his hands through his short cropped hair, eyes looking up at the madman who had half followed him to where he now sat. "It's just…amazing," he finished weakly, eyes closing, firmly convinced that he had just spent the last few minutes aiming the misguided affections of Jim Moriarty straight at his best friend. But what else was there? If this evil being before him lost interest in Sherlock, then where might that lead him?

There was a brief silence that followed his words, long enough that it caused him to open his eyes again to check the position of the room's other, dangerous, occupant. Jim stood there, drawing the shadows of the room with his mere presence, staring through the doctor's body, as if taking apart his soul. The criminal's face was…so like Sherlock's when locked in this intense concentration that John had to avert his gaze shortly, his gut clenching round the short spears of pain that formed within. He waited, not desiring further conversation of this topic. At least, not with _this_ man. But finally, eons of nothing ended...with a ringtone.

The fanciful music trilled out brightly from Jim's jacket pocket, a new Disney song that John thought he recognized as "Let it Go" from the animated movie 'Frozen.' The criminal smiled in a mock apology as he held up a finger and pulled the mobile free, muttering something about someone who always wanted _fun_ music for their identifier. He swiped the screen to answer his call and turned slightly away. John strained to hear anything, because he never knew what might be an important clue that could lead to unraveling the mystery of his location. But all he heard was what seemed a tenor voice, possibly female. He couldn't make out what was said by the voice, so he listened to the words of the man on this end.

"No. I'll bring it by in just a bit." A pause. And it seemed to John that Moriarty's voice was…different. "Yes. I promise." Pause. "Lots of it, yes." Pause. "Listen, darling, I've really got to get back to work right now. I'll see you very soon." Pause. "You too." To say that John was simply perplexed defied the very foundation of confusion. Mere language could not capture the depths of his mental crossfire at the moment. However, he was given no further time for consideration as the criminal slotted the cell back into place and whipped about, all dark intensity and purpose returned as he gave a level and knowing glare to the ex-soldier. He resumed their conversation as if there had been no interruption at all.

"I know what you're doing," the criminal voiced low, sending a trickle of frozen arrows through John's heart. "I may be more the sociopath than our mutual friend out there, but I recognize your fear. Your...horror? Yes." Jim turned and walked back over to the window, peering out and down at Sherlock. John watched his progress warily, and his heart jumped at the sight of the gun coming up and taking aim at what he could only guess from his imperfect viewpoint was his friend's body. Jim turned his head to give a secret little smile at the ex-soldier.

"Stop. Don't." John said softly.

"Oh, but mustn't I? Here you've spouted these wondrous things about life, and love, and _sentiment_…all aimed at _me_." Jim's eyes returned to sighting the target. "Well, let me reassure you, Dr. Watson, that my interest in Sherlock Holmes is purely professional." The hand tightened around the handle of the Sig before a loud whisper followed. "I could kill him. Right now. And it would be your fault. Your. Fault."

"No," John said simply, more a statement than a plea. And it caused Moriarty's head to turn towards him again.

"What?"

"No…. You can't kill him… Not here. Not now." John took a steadying breath, his voice gaining confidence in his own deduction as he made the biggest gamble of all, with Sherlock's life as the currency. "And you won't."

Jim stared him down, chocolate brown eyes turning a murky, sour color in anger. He was fighting an inner battle, that much John could tell. Kill Sherlock out of spite, or…not. John had no idea what motives Moriarty could justify to himself why he would ever spare the detective's life, but the doctor had desperate hopes that the facile mind behind those eerily glaring eyes would birth one of sufficient promise. A veritable famine of audible noise swirled through the room as choices and decisions, possibilities and futures were all subjected to the thorough examination and scrutiny of the master criminal. And John thought he could feel it, that instant when Jim's mood shifted…a decision reached. The ex-soldier swallowed hard in anxiety-riddled anticipation as his eyes locked onto the gun, and more specifically, the trigger finger.

Both arm and gun slid softly back to the criminal's side, and Jim chuckled self-deprecatingly. He pocketed the gun, spinning away from the window and spreading his arms wide, voice loud once more.

"You're right, Dr. Watson! I simply _can't_ kill him now. Not when I've invested so much in his _turning_. Thank you ever so much for reminding me!" His arms lowered and he looked around as if realizing the time. "Well, it looks as if it's time for you to leave. But one more thing before you depart…" And the criminal crossed swiftly to John's position again, reaching out and twisting his hand into the upper front of the cable knit fabric, pulling John face to face. The ex-soldier held still, revealing nothing. Jim's eyes were wide with madness and malicious glee as he said, low and suggestively, "I marked him, doctor. He's mine. I own him. His mind," Jim's eyes flicked towards John's forehead first before flicking downwards below his chest, "And body."

John was suddenly shoved back, the fingers releasing his shirt as Jim spun to leave. The hands that had committed and ordered thousands of crimes slipped effortlessly into Jim's trouser pockets, and he called out over his shoulder, "Time to go, Dr. Watson. And don't worry. No dying for you; how ordinary! No, just a trip back to Scotland Yard to show them yet again how inept they are. I trust you'll be fine without me? My men will…show you out…" A vague gesture above the criminal's head as Jim walked out was the last John saw of him.

"Piss off," John grumbled miserably, feeling drained as the criminal wended his way through and out of the doorway. Five men entered afterwards, all looking grim, armed, and well prepared. One held out the blindfold. John rolled his eyes and snatched it, cursing the entire time it took to tie it up. And maybe longer…

Moriarty left John in the capable, and oft times brutal, hands of five of his men. _Enough to handle him, for sure. _His mind flashed onward to new topics, Dr. Watson being the least of his concerns_. And now… _he thought as he entered his own wing of the building once again. His scattered plottings from this morning still lay strewn about haphazardly as he entered his chambers, intent on one thing. Answers. But for this, he would have to go deep. Deeper than the Hall of Mirrors, but not so far as dreams. A sort of in-between space that opened more doors to the mind's lost secrets and intuition. Experienced meditation practitioners could encounter it when focused shrewdly enough. His mirrored hallways were excellent for reflecting on knowledge already acquired or experienced. But for this, he needed to _learn_ something about himself. Study. Something as yet not understood, or even hinted at, in the waking world. But he knew it was important, _and_ that it was part of his solution to the final problem.

The only issue was that this area that existed outside of both the conscious and the subconscious wasn't always controllable. As in, things learned within weren't always brought back, consciously anyway. They very well may remain locked in the vaults of the brain, just as inaccessible as if they had never been learned at all. It was unpredictable and risky, especially for Jim, whose mind held such nightmares and midnight blackness. If he were pulled under and caught in one…well…trouble.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: All I've got to say here is: Thanks to Revella for being my cheerleader &amp; proofer so I still feel compelled to push on, and…I'm so sorry, Jim, for what I'm about to show the readers in this chapter and the next..…**

Jim wandered over to the lounging sofa that lay a few meters from the edge of his bed, nestled just under an open window. Leaden, life-dulling sunlight oozed through the portal, adding an air of depression to the criminal's chambers. He toed off his shoes and collapsed across the piece of furniture. His restlessness made it difficult to begin. He tossed first to his right side, then over on his left. Finally, he flung himself onto his back with an arm over his eyes, one knee bent up and hanging out. He never favored going past his Hall of Mirrors. The benefits were great, but the risk of actual dreaming was an ever present threat. And James Moriarty hadn't dreamt in over seven years, not since learning to conquer it, like all other bodily functions. And so, when he laid down to seek his rest every night, he found himself either floating in nothingness, or he dwelt within the Hall. Part of him understood that this had much to do with his mental instability, but the other part argued that the alternative was worse: opening himself to memories seeping through the seams of his slumbering visions…a return of the madness.

He slowed his breathing, concentrating on the silence of his surroundings to elevate him into the state of mental composure that allowed for control over autonomic functions. He would slow his heart, and then time his breaths with the beats. Expiration…thump, thump, thump, thump….inspiration…thump, thump, thump, thump…repeat. Claws of uncertainty caught beneath his ribs, as he hadn't attempted this in years, but he continued undeterred. It still took only a few minutes now where it had used to require hours back when he had first acquired the technique. His mind began to circle, seeking entrance, in quest of depths to himself that would terrify a cult of satanic monks. His arm began to slide off of his eyes as he slipped below simple wakeful consciousness. Not yet unaware, but progressing. It slowly fell to his chest as he felt himself let go finally, finding himself beside the grand burial mound at the outskirts of his mental fortress. Without preamble, he began moving, just passing through. He didn't pause to look over the vast greenery and rune covered stonework surrounding his tomb of secrets, the entrance of his Hall of Mirrors. He passed through and down the worked stone staircase through the blackness, emerging at the base to be immediately encased within the subtle _un_-light that barely allowed for distinguishable landmarks when one first entered. The silvery illumination permeated everything; even, seemingly, his body.

He pressed onward forcefully, quickly striding through the chambers and passages. He was of a mind for action at this moment, and so didn't pause at his usual respites, the very few and precious memories he had of a life before…_reality_. So few of those. And in truth, he wasn't sure that one or two of them weren't just fabricated by a hurt and lonely little boy's mind, seeking comfort. Those mirrors stood out with their polished surfaces and shimmering detail as he moved past, barely glancing to the side. They seemed to glow from within as he came near, flaring when he was closest, and then fading into normal tone when he was gone. He strode down and around, taking lefts and rights, and sometimes seeming to travel in a complete circle but always ending up exactly where he needed to be. He had built this place so long ago, and its foundations were marked indelibly within his brain. He could have walked the paths with eyes closed. Upside down. Under water.

Almost to his destination, he stopped, his attention diverted for just a second to a mirror that, while it did not shine with the polish of frequent use, neither did it look neglected. Rather, it had the appearance of something that was held in high regard but respected from a distance, never to touch. James stood facing down the hall, muscles tensing and relaxing alternately as he fought the urge to turn, to indulge on a whim. He huffed in annoyance at his own weakness. And a voice reached out to him…not detected within the fragile and often unreliable human organs of audition, but more _felt_ from within and resounding outward from the many layers of his soul. _James? Are you here again? Where are you?_

And he sighed, turning to let the living memory view him, lifting the opaque grayness that hazed the mirror's surface and revealing…a young woman. She was in her late twenties, though at certain angles she seemed much younger. Shorter than he by a head, which was saying something, but standing straight-backed and inquisitive. Her eyes…those eyes…they were the color of moss on an oak tree growing alone in a sacred grove. Her skin was pale, though not so much as his, and dusted with a fine coat of freckles. _How I loved to trace them all_…he thought as he approached. Hair lay about her shoulders, extending just past, and was of a medium brown shade until she moved her head, revealing the warmth of a hearth on Christmas Eve in the red highlights scattered throughout. Heart shaped face set apart with those dazzling, almond shaped eyes, and a small frame graced with abundant curves. She had seemed his fairy tale pixie come to life within his arms long ago. _So long ago…_he almost mourned, locked within the vault of his thoughts for a moment at the sight of her.

_James? You're doing it again. Come back to me._ He blinked, his eyes clearing as he stared down at her reflection, her memory. _What are you here for now? You hardly come anymore_. For a mere memory, this shade pulled much of the fire from its original owner, like an eternal flame in a glass menagerie. After a moment's consideration, no sarcastic quips would come to his tongue, and so he merely confessed. A truth flowed easily from his lips, as if he never would have lied to her in the first place.

"I'm going _through_. I'm looking for something…something deep." He felt the urge to reach up and touch, but he gritted his teeth and held firm. That way led to nothing good. She looked at him quizzically, as if wondering at his body language.

_Do you think it will hurt me? What you seek?_ And he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His voice seemed laden with more of the accent of his origins of a sudden. And it made him feel thick and slow of tongue.

"I don't know, I…I don't know. I just…I need to look at something from a different angle, a new perspective." She nodded, crossing her arms in front of her in surrender of the fact that he hadn't come to visit her specifically.

_Then you must go, James. It's important. __**I**__ feel it, and I'm just fragment of a reality_. He laughed at his own mind's interpretation of what the real woman would have said. And he lifted a hand up in supplication as the mirror turned milky once more. His hand turned, lifting to his lips to touch, and then he lightly applied two fingertips of that same hand to the cool surface. He closed his eyes a moment to take a deep breath before pushing off with a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Seraena." And his footsteps quickened down the hallway as an answer chased his shadow.

_Goodbye, James._

It took several more twists and turns, but he finally found himself at the edge of his manufactured reality. It was as if the Hall ended and…grayness began. Emptiness. Like everything was washed out of the world and slate left in its place. The depth of the singular color made it seem almost solid, with no discernable dimensions. An endless pewter nothingness. James glanced from side to side, checking his location, and then stepped off into the ether, feeling his control slip bit by bit the deeper he traveled. It didn't take long, because the veil between awareness and true sleep was thin. It was more a matter of finding a midpoint, a balance. On the far side of the direction he now faced rested the obscure oblivion of the realm of dreams, soft and black. Back the way he had come shone with the silver-white light of reality and control. Judging the place in between that had an equal amount of both was the key, and he took his time to measure it in his mind before setting his feet in the chosen place to begin his search. One side in the light, the other in the dark. The metaphor was not lost on him.

And it wasn't so much a 'search' as it was an introspective exploration of one's own mind, body, heart, and soul. Knowledge held, experience undergone, and the potential outcomes of the combinations of various possibilities could all coalesce for the disciplined mind's use here. Leading to revelations that one could never attain within the realm of consciousness alone. Controlling its flow was almost impossible, though; and holding onto the knowledge gained was even harder when one 'awoke' afterwards. Often, when he used to venture here more often, Jim would come back with only a vague sense of something being the right or wrong thing choice of action. Which often was enough to go on in its own right for him. But _this_ situation…no. It needed concrete thoughts, conclusions, and a plan. 'Know thine enemy,' the old saying went. And so he would. Thoroughly. But first, he had to locate him.

His thoughts gathered themselves, spreading out through the ethereal realms beyond conscious thought. In the waking world, his body remained lax and sprawled. Here, he tensed as he felt the first tendrils of his seeking spirit brush against something. And he recoiled from it. Dirty, wicked, evil…but it had felt his coming. A voice, echoing hatred and laden with the promise of pain, drifted forth from the nothingness.

_Jimmy_…. His vicious younger brother's despised intonations reached his 'ears' as the flicker of a human figure appeared in Jim's periphery. Nebulous, yet threatening in its implications. There and gone. And then another flicker. Closer. And this time more cohesive. Jim held his ground, focusing harder on his true target. He had expected this; for the dreams that he had escaped years ago to come drifting out of their proper space, attracted to the vulnerability represented by the preoccupation of his thoughts. He ignored it, facing ahead, not deigning to turn his attention elsewhere. The figure flashed and reappeared right over his shoulder, sensing the obviousness of Jim ignoring its presence. An opaque shadow of a hand touched the criminal's arm, and he lashed out with his coiled anger, a wave of red hatred dissipating the thing before it gained too much influence over him. However, he knew that reacting to it was actually the last thing he should do. The more he interacted with the nightmares given form in here, the more influence they would gain over him, tempting him to drift off into the darker portion of his mind and eventually fall into the sphere of their existence. Where they held control. He would do better next time.

And he didn't have long to wait to test this newfound resolve. The next vision to approach him did so in a motley wave of angry colors and hues. Not everything here had a recognizable arrangement. This was more a tidal wave of visible emotion than anything else. Who knew what resided within its churning depths? Most likely it would cause a complete dissolution of sanity if permitted to make prolonged contact, leaving a nonfunctioning shell in its wake. The speed it came on with was difficult to judge in the grayed out land he currently resided within, so he braced himself early on. And then it loomed huge above him as it finally reached the destination it had been set on. Moriarty stood firm against its coming, closing his eyes as it reached him…and broke into shimmering particles over his slender figure. He shivered as its cold blanket slid over and down his skin and clothing into the 'ground' beneath his feet. Eyes opened once more, determined and hard. He was encountering these attacks sooner than he had thought he would, but he wasn't daunted. He had managed to keep these at bay for seven years, after all, and he could do it for many more still. It was all a matter of being aware of exactly what they were and that they couldn't hurt him unless he allowed them to.

His hands clenched into fists as he felt yet another attack arising somewhere in the distance. This was unacceptable! He tensed his shoulders and _pushed_ outwards with his will, sending a wave of suppression shooting out from his location. And the whatever-it-was died away. _Now then_, he thought, redirecting his efforts once more. _Where are you, Sherlock_? His eyes traced the non-outline of the gray region where he stood. _Where are you, my detective_? He relaxed into his stance somewhat after an unknown amount of minutes, his senses heightening to an almost supernatural degree. It was only a matter of time, of waiting. Without having complete control, as in his Hall, he couldn't predict what kinds of ideas and presentations would come to him, and couldn't govern them either. In the end, it was a numbers game. Eventually, he would find what he sought and snatch it from the multitude of uselessness that paraded around him. He remained silent as further images ran before him. He ignored most, pondered the thoughts raised by others, and tried extensively to forget many.

Time flowed around him, but he did not seem to exist within its influence. It was an outside thing. A thing of mortals. And for now, in this intangible place, he was immortal. He was _more_. Connected with his being in a way few people ever realize is conceivable, much less achievable. His fingers stretched out in gentle petition of the knowledge he sought, lures for the information to latch onto. And he felt himself finally reach the brink of self-awareness…and pitch softly over its edge. _Ah_, he sighed internally. _There you are_. His eyes, almost lost in the gloom of this place, narrowed at the approach of what he knew without needing confirmation was the thing he sought. He could feel it. Like a flutter within his heart's chambers. This was part of him, and yet not. Something unexplored, unaccepted, un-validated. As yet to be incorporated into the miasma of strife that comprised the being of James Moriarty. This was what he had come for. And he watched it approach with anxiety-tinged anticipation. Back on the lounger, his heart sped up and his hands gripped the sides of the cushions, knuckles standing out like blades against his pale skin.

It came as more a feeling of pressure against his consciousness than anything he actually distinguished with sight; and the _something_ came closer meticulously. Then one minute, nothing was there. The next, he felt an inward push on his mentally constructed body. It wasn't an attack, not exactly. But it was uncomfortable nonetheless. And he blinked, long and slow, as if it would clear the sensation pestilence crawling over his skin. And when his eyes slid open on the end of the blink, he gasped, surprised so thoroughly that even his true form took a quick inhalation back in his room.

Blue-green eyes sprinkled with a dusting of golden flecks poured liquid nitrogen into his soul as he stood nose to nose with Sherlock Holmes. Entire universes were born and died within the depths of those sparkling celestial orbs. And the endless night had never seemed so inviting. It may not have been the man himself, but the specter had every bit of the imposing detective's sheer presence. Jim was actually staggered at the clarity of representation here. He kept very little in his mind this clear cut and detailed that wasn't of potential use. Certainly, he had a memory like unto Sherlock's, recalling relevant facts easily and with striking attention to seeming minutia. However, things of little import, which was most everything, didn't generally secure such consideration as to give their shades an actual _presence_. Yet here, in front of him, stood the wild haired detective in all his essence. That arresting facial features were slack and relaxed, but the eyes eerily glimmered with an almost-awareness. As if it simply awaited the smallest whisper of provocation to awaken and begin functioning as its own entity.

James backed away cautiously a step, just in case it was another nightmare seeking to invest itself within his trust. But the man before him stayed put. The criminal reached out to touch the detective's sleeve, to cement the concept in his mind. But when his fingertips made contact, the other man shattered into a thousand scintillating fragments, tinkling down onto the ground at Jim's feet. He snatched his hand back, wary of the ever-present possibility of treachery from his own mind. None moved in after him, though, and so he found himself staring down at the heap that had been a representation of his most challenging enemy. His final problem.

No. This wasn't how it should go. It wasn't how the story ended. He focused once more on what he _needed_ to accomplish here, extending a single arm down toward the shards of his once perfect recollection. Nothing happened for many seconds. But then…something stirred within the backdrop of his eyelids. It was almost like a low vibration of sound waves, just beyond the audible perception of human ears. The fragments before him shifted as though blown through by a sturdy wind. Tiny fractals rolled and loosened, only to disintegrate moments later into a shining silver sand: a mirror returning to its origins of silt and grit. He kept at it, willing it to return, willing _him_ to return, and give him what he needed. After all, what else was James Moriarty but an accomplished dominator of will? And so, slowly, it responded to him. Lazy motes of ash drifted upwards at first, drunkenly swaying as if indecisive of their destination. Then more and more of the shimmering substance began to lift away from below, gathering instead at chest height with the criminal.

The grains began to melt and flow together, looking like nothing so much as slithering bands of mercury. And Jim watched, mesmerized now, as the remainder of the grains joined with the floating collection. It swirled together in harmony, in synchrony. _Beautiful_, thought Moriarty. One of the few times he had ever truly expressed appreciation at something other than his criminal games. And the slowly rotating mass began to branch out, taking the vague shape of a man suspended upright. The outline completed, and he could make out the general shape of his enemy once more. Fingers formed, then clothing solidified about the man-thing; color began to be applied to everything, pale skin coating the exposed areas like milk spilled across the counter. But last to form were the features, which remained clouded and blurred, as if it couldn't quite settle on the schematics.

James felt a sharp jolt of panic and shock when it chose to first display his own face over the detective's before reforming into Sherlock's familiar visage. He shook his head. Just his mind playing devious tricks on him again. And that. Was. All. He stepped up to the new form of his adversary as it hung suspended before him. The detective's shoes almost touched the ground by millimeters as Sherlock hung there, arms thrown out and head and chest tipped back as if the invisible thread holding him was connected to his sternum. Jim could walk around behind him, to where the dark curled head was tilted back, and look into his inverted visage. The criminal paced the detective, studying every available source of information that was apparent visually.

The sight of Sherlock alone didn't particularly set off any chimes of sudden revelation. Staring down into the other man's inanimate face didn't inspire anything specific other than memories of the two them at odds. A frown formed in the lines of Jim's forehead as he fought to understand. He leaned a bit more forward, intent on looking once more into those challenging eyes, the angle making it problematic. He lifted a hand to pull back an eyelid but stopped as the lids both raised abruptly, revealing the bejeweled tones beneath. A thrill that had nothing to do with fear or hate thrummed through the criminal's middle, and his hand remained poised there, just over the other man's brow. He hesitated a moment before lightly running a finger along the shadows of the foremost curls, a tingle of pleasure running up his arm at the contact, and he let the hand fall back to his side as he tried to think through his next move.

He eyed the floating apparition and held out a hand, bringing his fingers halfway together as if grasping something, and then twisted at the wrist. The response was immediate, with the man before him coming to rest in a loose stance, eyes open and vacant but still penetrating. Jim smiled and approached, reaching out to run a hand down the sleeved arm of the detective. His gaze ran all along the lines and planes of the man, angles and shadows, seeking discovery of the source of the strange orbital pull they seemed to have on one another, but finding no purchase. And he felt that tug, despite his adamant denial of its existence as anything more than a mere curiosity. It bent him, changed him, weakened him.

Abruptly, James backhanded Sherlock across the face, the criminal's features written over with a type of rage rooted in the grief of a soul's fears.

"What is it about _you_?! What hold do you have over me?!" he yelled into the uncomprehending face. The detective's form remained unreactive, having only stumbled and then recovered back into the original standing position. No retaliation would follow as this was only a representation of the man who so frustrated him. James spun in place and began pacing back and forth. This was pointless. He was learning nothing except that he needed to work out some pent up anger issues later. And how was that anything new? His failure so far was needling its way under his skin, making him feel an almost physical discomfort as a result of his ineptitude. His stomach boiled with impatience. Even though he understood the nature of these mental excursions, he still had been in denial about the amount of time it would take him to reach a conclusion. Now, he was faced with the possibility that he might have to stay here longer, exposing himself to things deeper than he desired.

His steps ceased, and he came back to the side of the other man, looking across those familiar features. From this angle, the color of Sherlock's eyes washed out into a uniform silver, like shining, mocking coins. Even in Jim's own mind, the detective seemed destined to frustrate his attempts at…well, at anything in general. Jim leaned closer, his incorporeal nose picking up the scent his mind had ascribed to the detective. Expensive silks and linen, cashmere and chocolate. Maybe a hint of a spicy aftershave? A little closer still, and yes. Aftershave. Not of any brand he could name. Closer still. And now he was almost flush to the other man's form, still unresponsive. He continued to breathe deeply, inundating his mouth and nose with this subtle part of the detective that he had never appreciated before. But it something underlying those manufactured scents that held him raptly attentive against that pale skin, his face having somehow found its way down and next to the sharp angle of the taller man's throat and shoulder. His eyes closed, and he felt himself falling…

Then he abruptly pulled his head away, eyes wide at the openness of his soul moments before. And all from the mere _smell_ of another person? It was as if Sherlock gave off some kind of pheromones specifically designed to attract the crazies. A true shit magnet, if ever there was one. Jim chuckled softly to himself at this thought and tried to shake off the feeling of defeat that kept threatening to sneak up on him. He looked instead into the face of this most frustrating of human beings, thinking to himself that he needed a new vantage, a different perspective. Sherlock always reacted to situations honestly. Bluntly. And most times as rudely as possible. _How then, do I interpret his actions concerning me_?

He thought on Sherlock's behaviors, his words, his darkened looks and secret smiles that he thought James never noticed. The signs were all there for the shrewd observer to interpret. For all that the detective tried to project the air of an unemotional sociopathic savant, the only person intelligent enough to pierce that façade was doing so now. _Sentiment_, James thought with revulsion. _He thinks I hold some type of fondness for him_? Yes. It was brush-stroked across the colors of the other man's soul, painted blatantly in every interaction they had. Sherlock played the game, yes, but for higher stakes. Jim tilted his head as he considered the implications on himself. The detective was slowly molding to Jim's image as planned, yes, but…was the metamorphosis flowing in only one direction? Or did it reach across into the more profound realms of cause and effect? Had he, James Moriarty, changed? It took him very little time to answer that question. Images of entering Sherlock's room and wrapping himself around the detective on the floor that night filled him to bursting with indisputable proof; the voices of madness in his mind had ceased, totally, with the detective's presence. Other smaller, but no less poignant, instances crowded in, vying for inspection, for evaluation. And Jim began to understand. Further than curiosity, deeper than obsession, and stronger than hate… James could feel it, buried deep, but burning white hot…within himself…

_No_, he denied pitifully to himself. And then louder, to whatever other parts of himself were listening, "No!" He grabbed the front of Sherlock's suit jacket, ripping it down and away from those slender shoulders; then he tore the dress shirt aside, buttons pinging off to the ground, revealing the mark he had left upon the taller man's breast, just beneath the length of bone from his clavicle. "I marked you. You're _mine_! Not the other way around." He touched the mark on a whim, looking to the blank eyed stare that gazed back at him, and his eyes narrowed. Nodding to himself, he said aloud, "This is a lesson, Sherlock. And a test. One I've learned long ago, and passed." A woman's scream echoed, long and haunting, in the vast distance of night off to his side, where no stars had ever dwelt.

He stepped deliberately into an embrace with the detective, whose arms responded to the mental call of Jim's need. He was compelled to prove a point, to himself. "This…you think _this_ will conquer me?" Jim asked as he pulled the other man closer to emphasize what he meant. He stared in angry disbelief at the body in his arms, and his face contorted in fury. "You. Are. _Wrong_." And he came in quickly, aggressively forcing his lips against Sherlock's, clashing teeth and tongues as the avatar responded to subconscious command, returning the kiss, but only just.

Then Jim pulled back. "This is _nothing_. Transient. Intemperate. _False_." Though inside, the criminal fought to dispel the set of fluttering things that their connection had set free, denying the heady sensation of falling that had swept over him. His eyes found those empty ones once more, and he fought to verbally wound an opponent of smoke and mirrors as his one-sided argument continued. His voice was low pitched, paced, and deliberate. "I see you…and feel nothing." He swiped his hand down in negation. "I touch you," his hand raised against the detective's cheek, stroking down with the back of his palm, "Nothing." He struck an insulting blow to the same cheek…rocking back as if he himself had just been hit, too. He blinked, applying a hand to the throbbing pain in his jaw. And still the _feeling_ grew stronger, creeping like the slow death that claims all in the end. And it was gaining in volume, in resilience…a crescendo of raw emotion.

"This is wrong," Jim said, a bit hoarsely. It felt as if his chest would implode, taking all of who he was with it; and then he would be re-made and bonded to the heat of the detective's molten core. Spirit calling to spirit in a communion of souls. The other man's stability providing the foundation of the criminal's rebirth. He tried to push away from Sherlock, but the avatar's arms tightened about him…. And that…_that_ single action, told James all he needed to know. It flooded his mind and senses, overwhelming defenses put in place years upon years ago. Here in this place out of time…where _he_ was both creator and destroyer of this figure before him, where _his_ mind was the director for its actions….Jim had tried to pull away…and _it_ had pulled him closer… His own mind had just supplied him with the answer to his problem. And even though it left other questions in its destructive wake…he knew. He _**knew**_.

_No_! He struggled harder, almost reverting to childhood's wiles in order to increase the ferocity of the escape, but it only served to cause the figure of Sherlock to hold those arms more securely around him. He tried falling down, kicking, punching (which was quite ineffectual at such close quarters), and was about to begin using his teeth when…he felt a cool hand slide up the back of his neck as he was leaning as far back and away as possible…and the fight went out of him. The fingers stopped in the bottom of his hair, soft pressure on his nape, and slowly drew him forward until he was against the detective's shoulder. His own breathing was harsh, but calming. There was no magic in the contact. No special skill was employed to subvert another's actions. Just simple, human, touch…and the knowledge of who it was that offered it; or at least, who _could_ be offering it, as this wasn't the true personage. Another scream sounded off to the side, within the darkness. Jim's eyes flicked up over Sherlock' shoulder. _When did it get closer_?

Jim lifted his head from the space where he had been cocooned against soft silken garments, a warm, beating heart beneath his ear. As he shifted his view, he felt something tumble away from his face. Looking down, he saw the crystalline tears that hadn't yet absorbed into Sherlock's jacket top. He stared at them in both wonder and horror. This was never meant to happen again. He had guarded well against it. Love, and caring, and all sentiment was a _disease_. Filthy and wrong. Pain was the only ending of such things. It gave hope only to grow it fat and then slaughter it. _End it before it hurts you again_, he thought to himself. _But…_came the onlyargument_. No_. A resigned nod followed, and he smiled through the shining patina of tears that he had learned to treat as poison.

Chocolate met deep turquoise as he stood up on his toes, seeking the lips of this phantom once more, _One last time_, curling one hand into the tattered shirt he had ruined to pull them tight. Eyes closed, and they connected. It was soft, and giving, and promised so much more than the physical realm could ever hope to offer. A match made of heaven and hell, with neither side predominant. Each complimenting the other and fortifying individual powers and strengths. Words couldn't convey what passed through their kiss; at least, none in _his_ mind. And since it was truly _not_ reality, James Moriarty let himself go for a moment, completely untethered, balancing on the edge of a great unknown divide. Eternity seemed below them, and above…_everything_. There was nothing he couldn't do with this man by his side.

James' eyes fell open before their lips parted, and they shared breath for a moment. His hand gripped ever tighter in the fabric, as if he could save himself from what was to come by mere strength of arm alone. His next blink sent a fresh cascade of diamonds falling down, down, down… And his eyes were sorrowful as he spoke in a harsh whisper.

"I always said I owed you a fall, Sherlock Holmes." He swallowed, eyes seeking understanding where there was nothing at all. "I just never thought it would be paid like _this_…" He inched upward once more to place a last chaste kiss on those smooth, cool lips…and drove the blade expertly underneath the sternum and through the detective's heart.

Blood gushed forth onto Jim's hand, hot and thick. The man before him gasped in wordless agony, faltering back, arms finally releasing their prisoner. Those wondrous, fascinating eyes rolled back and closed as the detective fell away from James to collapse boneless on the floor. The sanguine liquid began to slowly form a sickly halo around him as the criminal stared in disbelief at what he'd done. It was necessary, yes. He knew that. But as he looked upon the seeping and insidious stain that mocked him with its finality, he felt…_something_. His mouth turned down in a scowl as he tried to place what was distracting him. It felt like his heart was beating just a bit too hard... There it was again! His hand clapped across his chest as another thud of agony shot through it. _What_?! Being shot from behind surely felt better than this! _Thud_. Again! He grimaced, the breath rushing out of him and his eyes screwing shut as he tried to breathe through the wave of nauseating torment.

The next one brought him to his knees, feeling like thunder with no sound, pressure from within. When he opened his eyes again, he felt a kind of warm wetness under his hands. He lifted them from their position clutched against him, and saw the wound, mirrored of Sherlock's. And then Jim's blood began to pour forth; and with it, his life. His eyes found the detective as he pitched forward and rolled onto his side. That pale, angular face was so peaceful in its eternal slumber. Jim reached out with numb fingers that now had both of the men's blood on them, but he wasn't close enough. The hand fell. He hadn't the strength. Off to the side, he heard his brother laughing. He heard a woman's voice, desperately urgent, trying to wake him. And he heard the silken rustle of raven's wings as his eyes could no longer stay open. The darkness of his nightmares crept forth on tendrils of liquid smoke and barbed wire, encircling his form while the last of his consciousness was bled away. The world tilted, and then…nothing…


	28. Chapter 28

_Seven Years Ago….._

"James? You're doing it again. Come back to me." A soft hand on his shoulder. "Come back to me, baby." The hand tightened, and the conscious light of life began to flood James Moriarty's eyes. Eyes which were already open, but had been…different somehow. Remote. Dead. He noted distantly that he was holding a gun that had recently been fired, his hand still tingling from the recoil. His entire body felt loose, unreal, uninhabited, but for this faint awareness of himself that he now carried. It was always like this, his way back. Reality slow and seeping as if _it_ was the dream and the _other_ was truth. He supposed it should worry him that this time he'd had no warning of the onset. No aura to foreshadow his waking nightmares.

When he was very small, and his mother had been able, he had been taken to a priest. They could not afford true medical care, and no one cared for another wretched child of a prostitute. So she settled for the spiritual care of his physical ailments. A religious whore, his mother. And he as well… He remembered his small hand in hers, trembling as the imposing figure had questioned him. Possession, it had been labeled after his 'examination.' The boy would hallucinate just beforehand, colors or lights that made no sense before he fell under; much like a migraine. In later years, certain emotions could bring it about, too; but always, it was precluded by the aura of lights, like fairies flitting along the edges of his vision. Sometimes there were auditory hallucinations as well, generally nonsensical, but some that would have scared his mother had he ever informed her of them, which he didn't. She had worried enough already.

"James?" More concerned this time. It didn't usually take him this long to respond. He turned, and his eyes found her. He could always find her... Seraena. And a warmth broke over the stone of his heart, setting it alight like the fiery waters round the shores of Ireland. There had never been any rhyme or reason for this love. And he reveled in the uncertainty of it. The bond they shared burned strong and scintillating, as if another spark between their hearts could end them both. They had met…and now they loved. Was that not how it was supposed to be? Fairy tales… But perhaps this tale was a bit darker more often than was the wont of their childhood versions.

"Fine. I'm…fine," he eventually whispered out, a slow smile stealing across his face at her worried expression, though she expressed relief at the response. And he drank in the sight of her.

He couldn't trace his initial attraction to her, nor she hers to him. She had been in his employ. Small time, nothing important. Probably just paper running, or as a visual distractor for daytime maneuvers. She rarely had come into his presence, much less actual contact with him, back then. There was no reason. He was…James Moriarty…principal figure for the growing epicenter of criminal negotiations and operations worldwide now. His name was on the verge of being _the name_ when it had happened.

He had left through a back way of his lair, not wanting to bother with disguises and all that for once; looking the part of an _ordinary_ person. He was tired and simply wanted to retreat to his cold and empty flat for the night. Perhaps get take away and sift through his Hall for memories of another time. But his thoughts had been interrupted by a sharp sob under the stairwell. He had paused, looking beneath, and saw her curled up, skirt ripped and hair torn from its arrangement to hang wildly about her face. One look, and he could see she thought he'd kill her for this. Female weakness, in the den of his network. After all, what crime lord cared for the sexual welfare of his people? With one look, he deduced her physical injuries, superficial; and her mental injuries, extensive… Given her height, the location of the attack, and the way she lay sprawled out, he narrowed the suspects to three. Now…her looks had a certain appeal to some, and he immediately disregarded the suspect who was gay. Of the other two…one was more likely to kill her than leave her like this, and so that left…alright. But better be sure.

He hauled her up to stand before him, and she bit back a scream. She was looking into the eyes of someone who had killed others for something as simple as accidentally touching him, and now _he_ was touching _her_! He could see it all play through in her mind, but she kept quiet. She held firm. He quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head at that. Admirable. After all, he _was_ quite scary! But for now…_someone_ needed pain. In extensive quantities. He couldn't abide rapists. None of his people knew of his lowly origins, so they weren't aware of how much that singular crime set him off, flared his madness.

"_Who_?" His single word echoed with so many meanings, and she knew that when the name fell from her lips, it would be a death sentence for the one of whom she spoke. The reflection of _her_ pain in _his_ eyes bled through, he knew. And she trusted him when she understood it, calmly naming the one responsible. It took little time after that. Locating Agent Debrare and putting a bullet through his skull with no explanation, no warning, was accomplished as if going for milk. She followed James silently, and she watched her assailant die just the same. They stood there quietly a moment before she had softly slid her hand over Jim's to take the gun from him…and emptied the rest of the clip into the rapidly cooling form. Then she had licked a bit of her own blood off the back of her hand and spit it on the body. Jim thought he might have loved her then…

Another entreaty came through to him, and he blinked, this time slamming into his wakeful body all at once. He coughed, still looking into Seraena's emerald eyes, and she saw it for truth this time, that he was back with her. He smiled, though it was forced. And he looked around to get bearings on his situation. The gun in his hand rested heavily, and he turned it, wondering what he had been….oh. His eyes found the two dead men moments later. One of his own, and the other…he didn't recognize. He frowned, unable to figure what had set him off this time…or why he hadn't had an aura to warn him of the onset of his mental departure… As usual, Seraena read his thoughts.

"That one touched you, James," she said, indicating the unrecognized fellow, and Jim noted how she kept contact with his shoulder, still unwilling to let go. "He was a friend of Hassle's," she finished, meaning the other dead man. Ah, so one had _touched_ him, Jim had reacted as he did to _all_ human contact, and Hassle had attempted to aid his friend. _Bad idea_…Jim thought to himself. After all, everyone knew what a damn fine shot their boss was, even on the move. Many had joked that he would be able to shoot the hair off of a widow's mole while pole dancing upside down from the back of a galloping camel. And they were almost right…

"Well," he said, trying to start but not knowing where. It had been months since his last episode, and he had been hopeful of keeping this condition as secret as possible. Of course, now that he had dead-eye killed two men in the middle of his safe house and then acted like a zombie when called… _Oh well. Adds to my glittering personality and charm_, he laughed internally. "We should get back, darling. All of this," he gestured disgustedly towards the corpses, "has put me off for today's business. I think Michel can handle the rest without me. There's nothing else that needs attending to until this evening. Let's just go." He acted so nonchalant, as if nothing was wrong. Only she alone knew how much these black outs bothered James. He would never show such uncertainty in front of his men, though. And so she slipped an arm about his waist as if she were just desiring physical proximity and not actually helping him stay upright as they exited the building.

They hit the door to his room thirty minutes later, after taking a cab ride home in which the cabbie had threatened them with all manner of physical violence if they did not stop the wanton things they began in the backseat. She had smirked at Jim, knowing he, too, saw the irony of being threatened by such a peon. But for the cabbie knew, Jim was just some puffed up young banker fellow, all posh and prim, trying to make a grab at a pretty girl. Maybe they could work with that role play later? It had potential…

The door crashed against the inside of his room as they fought to keep their mouths against each other while they moved through the portal. She smiled into their kiss. She was always smiling, his Seraena. Even when he killed. Even when he robbed. No matter the bad things he did, she always smiled at him, the silent language of their hearts. He often wondered if she was quite as broken as he inside, the way she took his deeds in stride. The only time he had ever seen her show fear was that first day of their initial contact. Never after. Though one _would_ think it wise to fear James Moriarty. He did, after all, apparently black out and kill randomly… But she always brought him back. It was a knack he hadn't planned on. An unexpected benefit of their shared tenderness.

The first time had been a shock. The aura of lights warned him, and he had frantically begun pushing her towards the doorway of the large library-like office that he operated out of most of the time. Once warned, he usually had scant minutes to prepare. His men stationed in the room had sensed the change come over him. He stopped being the never-able-to-sit-still-Jim and became the loose-limbed-stoic-devil-Jim. It was always as if a calm settled around his shoulders before it began. His men thought it just mood changes. Most times, he was never too concerned about his surroundings, just preferring to be alone if he could, and wake up to broken furniture. That time, though, _she_ had been at risk. For the first time in a long time, he had actually been concerned about the bystanders. His men knew to just shuffle out and leave him alone, but Seraena…she did not. She had only heard the rumors of Moriarty's infamous random killings of crew members and mercurial swings of emotion. And she had chalked them up to be just that. Rumors. Oh, not that James _didn't_ kill indiscriminately just to cause an upset in the rankings of his network. Made it hard for informants, that's for sure. But the kind of sheer brutality that came out during these spells was nothing shy of…monstrous. And no one was spared from them.

The last he remembered was being about midway to the door, his men outside ready to shut him in, Seraena being shoved before him with questions resplendent in her sea-green eyes. And then…nothing. He had awoken to the sound of her voice. He lay on his side on the carpet, blood on his hands, but it was his own. He had gouged long furrows down his forearms and into his palms. He felt nauseated and disconnected as always, but…she was _still there_, on the floor beside him, looking down with concern and…love. Yes. Perhaps this was when he truly loved her. When she spoke his name, it had the ring of having been oft repeated, and he mumbled something in reassurance that he was back. He was there. She had called him back; and he would never take her care for granted.

He could see the shadows under the doorway moving. His men. How much would it affect _their_ lives should he die? In the grand scheme of things, not much. They would drift apart and find new leaders. Or perhaps one of them would rise to take his seat. It was not a small danger, he knew, because he had almost killed himself on several occasions in the past during these episodes. No. For the here and now, and most probably for the remainder of his days, there was only one person left whose life would be profoundly affected by his passing. And he knew then that he would do everything in his power to shelter and protect this creature from the world…and himself.

Their clothing began to rain down upon various furniture, decorating his room. It looked like a hurricane of fashion had blown through and left clutter in its wake. Even back then, Jim had always been conscious of his appearance, rarely ever to be seen in a simple t-shirt and jeans if not working an Op. His mouth claimed hers and then worked its way down her neck as she slipped a hand beneath the elastic of his pants, his trousers having long since fallen away and now decorating the bedside chair. He nipped her collarbone just before she divested him of even those, feeling the cool air settle over his skin and raise tiny prickles as she got down to her knees before him.

His head tipped back as she grasped the base of his cock and started a slow tease over the head. God, what she did to him! Never in his life before her had he allowed anyone this close, this intimate. He had no use for people in general. But she was different, his Seraena. She was clever, but the quiet kind, never flaunting her intelligence or the wily tactics by which she could see through some of Jim's clients as they tried, unsuccessfully, to lie to him. Her own talent for reading _people_ was far better than his, because she saw the whole person, not just the deductions that made them at that moment. And so she could read them, turn them, and burn them; their lies fell to so much ash. And James could never lie to her. He wanted to keep her, protect her, shield her. Odd sentiments for a man of his inclinations, but true all the same. There was never another who had possessed his entire world so completely. She could break him, be the end of him; and she knew it, never giving any inkling that it would appeal to her to do so. And he adored her for it.

He gasped as she took him whole in her mouth, hollowing her flushed cheeks around him as he moaned. He swept a hand along her hair, silken and wild. He would make it wilder… He pulled away, bending forward to stand her up against himself as he worked the last of her clothing off. Once accomplished, he wrapped strong arms just below her waist and lifted her up only to resettle her down, oh so slowly, onto himself, feeling the tight heat engulf him. His legs shook momentarily as he fought not to drive in fast and hard, and she seemed to sense the same as she simply clung to him, enjoying the proximity of their bodies.

Then he flipped them to where her back was pressed firmly against the wall and holding her partially up. His mouth found hers, frantic with the need to touch, to consume. And she was equally as desperate, breath rushing from her lungs as his cock began to move inside of her in a rhythm old as life itself. With her against the wall, he was able to free one arm from around her waist to reach up and cup a small, yet wonderfully perfect breast under his hand, squeezing and gliding fingers over the erect nipple. The gasp stolen from her lips was worth the strain on his spine a thousand times over, as he smiled into their kiss and returned the arm back to her hips. He hated how quickly he came after his "disappearances," but it was as if his body had the need to reaffirm the life within it, and so gave no leeway where lovemaking was concerned, seeking the quickest path to resolution. And he felt it stealing upon him with its usual urgency.

He turned and stepped the few feet to the bed with her still wrapped about him, and they fell across it, coming apart as they did so. She made a displeased noise in the back of her throat, reaching for him in mock annoyance, and he laughed as he climbed over her, kissing her stomach first, then each breast, before finally finding her lips again in an almost chaste application. So lost in his bliss and desire that he didn't even realize that he had spoken until she responded to it, wriggling excitedly beneath him.

"Ooooooo, yes, do it! Fuck me in Irish, James." Only on _her_ lips did his full name of James not rasp like blasphemy against his soul. And he did as she commanded, words as ancient as the stones and sands of his homeland flowing forth from his tongue, cradling her in their security as his body found its way back into hers and began the dance of flesh once more. She gasped as he spoke the unfamiliar and tantalizingly alien words into the base of her neck as he moved within her.

"Ooooh…I don't know…what you say…but it's…so….wonderful." He pulled back a second at her words, halting all motions, and looked at her worshipfully, whispering, "I say that you're beautiful, and precious…and that you're my whole world. A most complicated puzzle gifted to me to try to figure out for the rest of my days. You are a problem that needs solving…but never can be. You are a truth that I can always fall back on, Seraena. Your strengths increase my own. Your weaknesses, I'll protect. You're everything I need, and all that I want in this life. The game is secondary now, a diversion; it has been for some time. You've done what no one else ever could; healed where _they_ have spit." His eyes closed. "You're…..perfect." And he meant every word. Killer that he was, there was something broken inside of him that this woman managed to fix with her mere presence. And the repaired pieces were graced with a hole that only she could fill. She inched upward to catch his lips softly and speak through the shared breath.

"I'm yours, James."

_Thank God I'm a criminal_, was the first thought James had on the last day of this life. _Else I'd actually have to get up at this unjust hour_. His eye was cracked open and staring at the clock on the wall. He felt a bit lightheaded and fuzzy. He had fallen asleep beside her on his belly, head turned away from her. Lucidity was slow in coming for some reason right now, disorientation hovering about his thoughts. But otherwise he felt warm, sated, loved. Something he'd never imagined for himself. Smiling into the sheet, he rotated his head to where it faced her. They had a mound of sheets, blankets, and pillows all around them, obscuring her face somewhat. Only the tip of her nose was clearly visible. His eyes trailed lower to where the rubble wasn't so high. Her breasts stood out against the dull morning light like tiny, perfect peaks. He giggled inside as a thought struck him.

He wanted her. All of her. For the rest of his life. Marriage had never entered his mind all of these long and lonely years. And why should it have? Before her, there was only the game. Now, he had everything before him. And he wanted her to share it with him. He fought down the excitement of the moment, not wanting to tip her off that he was awake yet as he plotted it all out.

_A ring. Shall I get her a ring_? She didn't strike him as the jewelry type, but women were funny about things like that. And the ceremony…would there _be_ one? Yes, of course there would. She would be resplendent in that dress…her eyes would sparkle. All for him. The thrill ran through him once more, and he thought he couldn't keep it to himself. Knew he couldn't. _I could always buy a ring later, tell her I had wanted her to pick one that suits her since I'm fuck all at this anyway_. Yes, that way, he could have her happy affirmation this very morning! Nothing in his life seemed more important at this moment in time than asking Seraena Lilligan to be his wife. His permanent partner in crime.

He grinned all the larger for this realization. Precious yet burdensome, his new secret fought for freedom. _Not a secret for long, though_…. He reached out, as if stretching, to curl his fingers into hers, trying for an innocent way of waking her. Oh, she was cold! Perhaps if he pretended at seeking to cuddle her and cover her with a blanket, he could 'accidentally' wake her? His eyes refocused from their daydreaming haze, still fixed just over her wonderfully proportioned chest. And with his vision, so returned his deductive reasoning, never truly gone, merely dulled. And it ignited a horror previously unknown within him.

And his heart…..stopped...

His breathing..…stopped...

And his mind, for the first time in his life, went blank with him still present inside of it... As he watched; as he gazed; as he stared…at what _had_ to be time frozen in place. His brilliant mind's perfect recollection counted backwards to just how long he had been gazing dreamily, unaware and unfocused above her chest.

Her motionless chest.

_No_.

His fingers tightened over hers. So cold… _She hasn't woken up yet. She always wakes with me_. **Not today**. _She's just breathing shallow. This is a bad angle_. **Not true**. He closed his eyes against the invading commentary. _I'm still dreaming; I'll just wait a bit. We're to be married_. **Never**. He couldn't keep them closed. His mortal body sensed a wrongness in the form resting beside him. It was an effort of desperation getting his body to respond to the brain's commands. And he could feel every muscle fiber, sinew, and tendon creaking as he untangled his fingers and slid his hands beneath himself to slowly, fearfully, elevate above the chaos of their pillow strewn nest. _She's fine. I protect her, like always. We're to be married.._. **Stop**. His eyes shot to her face as soon as it became visible above the piled bed things. His breath hitched in his chest. _She could be sleeping_… **Not now**. Her features were bathed in the pale light of dawn, lending an ethereal quality to the already beautiful planes of her face. Eyes, nose, mouth, were all as they should be. Except…perhaps she was a bit more pale than usual… His thoughts flew back to the disorientation and lightheaded feelings that were receding when he had first awakened. So similar to… Waking nightmares…no. Not possible. Not so close together.

Tentatively, James reached out to lay fingertips to her cheek. His hand trembled as he did so, and increased in degree with his breathing as it encountered the cool, lifeless temperature. His hand then flew to the chest, resting over her sternum for long seconds as he stared hard into her features, not wanting to look down for the confirmation his hand sought. **Nothing**. _No. This doesn't happen_. Giving up on that method, he began to move his hand back up, with the goal of pressing in to seek her carotid's pulsation. But he caught himself as he finally saw what his eyes had been denying, had been avoiding…

Bruising…shadowy and abrupt, ugly and excruciating, like vomit on a birthday cake….it blossomed around her delicate throat, forming a dark butterfly of old blood beneath the epidermal layer. _No... We're to be married. Joined forever_. **Touch her. See what you've done**. His shaking fingers completed their route to lay against one side of her neck…and he watched his hand fit into the killing pattern, setting alight a pain like a ball of barbed wire being dragged through his gut. _Joined forever_… **You still can be…make the choice.** He shook his head, almost toppling over. Waves of nausea and dizziness were beginning to lap at the borders of his mind. Denial losing its battle finally…

He slid both arms beneath her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace, and kissed her face and neck frantically as his mind flinched at seeing her head slung back on the loose neck. He rocked her, cradled her softly, tears finally erupting as his mind began to encounter the reality of the situation. Jim held her to his chest, on his knees, as he rocked back and forth, pitifully seeking answers for the fickleness of a universe that no one has yet to figure out. Horrid, ugly things welled inside of him, but they couldn't overcome the helpless agony he was awash in. He spoke to her in English, and then in Irish. And at times, a mix of either; sometimes not even words formed, merely sounds and noises of the type that perhaps animals could interpret. The stars held no more mysteries for him if this was how they moved.

In his arms, he held the world.

His world.

Everything to him.

_Everything_.

And he had _destroyed_ it….

Time passed, and he knew it not. There was no reason to. That reason was gone beyond his reach. And when he finally set her back against the pillows and sheets and the dessicated life and love that once resided there, he placed himself over her, one hand on either side of her shoulders. His vision was so far gone into a well of grief that tears obscured almost everything. But he knew this route by heart. No matter the obstacles placed between them…he could always find her. And he found her now, lowering himself once more, nose to nose. A kiss: the brow. A kiss: cheek, to cheek. A kiss: the chin. A kiss: ...the lips. Cool and soft, he closed his eyes in one last attempt to call this a nightmare…but they opened upon the same revelation: he was a monster.

The understanding rose like a beacon before him. _A monster_… **Yes**. He pushed up and stood slowly, silently, almost as if waking her was still an issue. His neck twitched painfully, involuntarily, and he turned back to look down upon her… She had been his, for a time. His _love_. His _life_. His _everything_. Her body lying so still among the white linens gave the scene a biblical feel, holy. As if this were hallowed ground, and he a demon intruder. His own voice echoed back to him from memory, '_You're too good, Serry; too full of life. You're on the side of the angels_,' he had often teased her. And now... They had followed each other into many things during their time together, but now she had gone where he could not follow. **You can. It's possible. Make the choice.** His body shivered, but not from cold. And he thought he saw a flicker off to the side, as if someone had lit a candle. Left hand suddenly clenched by no command of his own. The previous shiver became a jerk of his shoulders. Still, he continued looking down at her. A few fireflies flitted into his vision, leaving sparkling trails of gold and silver behind. Even so, he remained motionless. And minutes later, when the sparks became more violent and numerous, he kept his eyes locked on Seraena, his once and only hope, as his vision failed and was replaced by an all-encompassing white fury that came howling down upon him. **Make your choice**. And then…..he was lost.

Moriarty's eyes flew open and he gasped for breath, flinging himself upright in the lounger beside his bed where he had sprawled. Brown eyes were widened in an expression not seen by others in years: fear…and self-hate. The fingers on his cut hand had gouged into the knife wound he had made last night, causing blood to run out and down. But the pain was washed out next to the horror he felt. It was as if he had just experienced everything anew. Love gained…and lost…horribly. _My fault_, he almost breathed out loud. And he knew that he was crying, but he didn't care, honestly didn't care. "Seraena," he whispered. And the screams began.

Not real. No. In his head. They began as if from a distance, building in strength. Wordless yells. Some of pain, others of loss, some that had no discernible state. All focused on him. All coming towards him. As if he were the center of a great maelstrom of torment. The disconnected voices didn't heed his mental defenses either, so carefully composed over the years specifically for this, his madness. And he knew then that something was wrong. Something had happened in his meditative state. He knew it had gone awry, but couldn't collect the details at the moment, feeling almost as disoriented as after one of his waking nightmares. He threw up every trick he could think of for repelling them: anger, hurt, hate, ignorance, _anything_… Nothing stopped them from coming on. And soon they were surrounding him, in him, pressing closer, pulling his soul apart from outside and in.

He could hear them. _Monster_. It didn't matter what other nonsense words came from their nonexistent mouths. Their meaning was clear. _Monster_. He covered his ears and slammed his eyes shut in a futile effort at denying other stimuli to the hallucinations. This was a bad one. Most especially since he didn't seem to have any way of getting rid of them. There used to be pills he could use to at least dull them, if nothing else. But he had none of those as he hadn't needed them in years. He soon began to hear another sound underneath the others, and it took him some little amount of time before he realized it was himself, the noise escaping his throat as a type of keening moan. And he didn't stop it. Couldn't stop it. It was too much. Too much. He needed to get up. Get away.

He removed his ineffective hands from his ears and leapt up quickly, with no idea where he was going but of a mind to get there, _anywhere_, as fast as possible. He took the first step of his run…..and fell flat on his face and stomach…collapsing over Sherlock Holmes.

The detective had arranged himself on the floor beside the lounger, complete with blankets and pillows, as if camping out. He barely seemed to acknowledge that a full grown man had just tripped and fallen over him. Screaming and shrieking all around in his head, Jim scrambled about until he came up beside the detective's left side. He saw, of course, his own laptop opened before infuriating man, but the pressure of the screams and wailing was too pronounced to care about these things. Sherlock was laid out prone, propping himself up on elbows to type; and he absently reached out and grabbed the criminal's hand that was closest to his own…..

Jim's world collapsed inward, voices shattering upon the contact made with Sherlock's hand on his, flesh to flesh. Silence, deafening in its crescendo of nothingness, poured into every gap of the shorter man's being. It was like being bowed beneath an impossible weight only to have it burst to pieces over you and disappear. He gasped, not loudly, but noticeably, beside the other man's shoulder. And Sherlock continued to scroll around on the screen with a bare pause at the exhalation. The taller man didn't turn his head, but spoke towards the screen.

"Saves me the trouble of hacking it," he said in a distracted tone as he moved Jim's hand. "You changed your password. Somewhat better, but not much. Wouldn't have taken long. But still…more fun this way." And Jim watched as his hand, covered by the detective's own, was pulled over and placed on the print reader on one side of the touch screen. The computer let out a chime of approval and unlocked. He set the shorter man's hand back down before any of this had truly cleared Moriarty's overworked mind. The criminal was still intently focused on the almost clairvoyant silence of his inner thoughts right now. Amazing. And the source of all this... The solution to the problem of his impending cognitive break…rested there beside him…hand still entwined with Jim's.

And it was this sight more than anything that caused something further to leave Jim. No name for it, just _something_. And the shorter man turned off of his belly and onto his left side, maintaining the half-noticed, mostly-distracted, and more-than-a-little-odd courtship of handholding. He didn't look up to the face illuminated by the laptop's artificial light. He looked only at what he held in his hand, sliding his other up along himself to place with the first. And slowly, he curled his body around that point of contact, his temple just touching the detective's shoulder; he cradled Sherlock's hand as if it were his _love_…his _life_…his _everything_. And he slept.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Anyone still out there? LOL! That's ok. I do this as much for my own enjoyment as anything. But I do still like hearing from others so I know I'm at least not alone in the Jimlock world…**

In a quiet, purposefully dimmed room about 2 hours away from the vulnerably evolving friendship between two mortal enemies, world affairs rose and fell neatly across a liquid crystal display. Its owner stared sightlessly through it, with nothing of what was being revealed affecting his blank façade. Assassinations, coups, political unrest, revolts, underground trafficking…none moved him. His thoughts were internalized and shifted through the sparse evidence of his brother's capture repeatedly, seeking always, finding never. Eyes reddened from the strain of prolonged time spent in darkness seemed to shine just a bit more than was natural. But perhaps it was the meager lighting, nothing deeper? Mycroft Holmes did not cry. He took control, he held it, and he always, always rejected _feeling_. Oft repeated to his little brother- caring is not an advantage- ran broken through his thoughts. _Still true_, he thought miserably. He reached over and checked his phone. No messages. A heavy sigh, and then, for the 25th time in just _this_ month since Sherlock had been taken, he laid his head down in the cradle of his arms across the desk…and he slept, the monitor continuing its pointless updating of events that no longer mattered to him.

Across town, seated in a tatty arm chair positioned opposite from the one usually employed by its current occupant, an ex-army doctor stared into the dying flames of a neglected hearth. This had become a ritual for him, and he hated that. He would start back at the surgery tomorrow morning, unsure if he was ready, but certain he needed to do _something_. His sanity felt as shaky as the American economy. But he was doing no one any good at all with his current daily routine: Wake, eat, wait, sit in Sherlock's chair and check for anything new with Lestrade, stare across at his own chair, wait, eat again, drop in at NSY in case Lestrade was lying, wait, return home miserable, turn on the TV and don't watch it, wait, eat again, sit in Sherlock's chair again, wait, touch the detective's violin, sit on the other man's bed, wait, wonder what that stain on the floor was (again), wake up suddenly before falling forward onto the floor, wait, then finally climb the stairs to his room and pretend to sleep. His friend wouldn't like him like this; and that was the only thing pushing him into the clinic again. He felt he was admitting defeat and abandoning his best friend in doing so, and he closed his eyes at the thousandth recurrence of this fear. _That's for tomorrow, nothing for today_, he braved. Because for now, he sat in Sherlock's chair…and he waited.

The detective inspector leaned back into the chair at his desk. The normally organized and neat space a picture of epic catastrophe. His eyes alone knew the patterns and locations of the contents displayed so haphazardly. He had his own system of dealing with Sherlock's disappearance, and it involved much unclaimed overtime, self-deprivation of sleep, and the re-examination of everything concerning the detective's cases from the last two years back. If there was any thread that could lead back to Moriarty, no matter how miniscule, he meant to find it and follow it all the way through to the other man. Though Sherlock was obviously an adult and quite cognizant of his own choices, Lestrade still felt the depths of a fatherly pain stirring always within his chest. It was his fault for taking on Sherlock all those years ago when he had found the young man dirt-streaked and coked up wandering through a taped off crime scene. He smiled sadly at the memory. The taller man had been crazier than a turd taped to a door, but he had still managed to embarrass and discredit the entire police crew working that scene, including the DI himself. He exhaled as if it would restart his mind, reboot his hope, and flipped through the pages of the same report he had been holding for the last 30 minutes, _this_ time determined to pay attention. But even when alert, the result was the same. Nothing.

Sherlock plonked along on the criminal's computer as the other man continued the strange behavior beside him. Peripherally, the detective was aware that Moriarty had obviously experienced some type of emotional/mental "thing" that had distressed him. And Sherlock had figured it was better to remain silent and let him work it through on his own. Interfering with someone as fucked up as Jim Moriarty was never going to win anyone any awards, unless it was the prize for quickest and stupidest way to shorten one's lifespan. He smiled as he closed the laptop. He hadn't really been doing much else than putting silly screen savers and icons on it just to bother the man curled on the floor with him.

He slid it away from himself and lay with his chin on the one arm he had free, stretched out belly down on the floor in a pinched dressing gown. The blanket he had placed to lay on kept the worst of the uncomfortable floor from his body, so he was relaxed enough to study his situation. The dangerous man beside him was breathing deeply, evenly, curled around Sherlock's palm. _So very odd_, he thought to himself. But then, that was why Jim was so fascinating to him. It was why they fit together so well. Moriarty was so…unpredictable. So brilliantly unstable. He was like a drug with no half-life, no end. A constant high, an endless fix.

The cutting from the other night had been…unexpected. No less so than the obvious delight Moriarty seemed to derive in mixing (and tasting!) their blood. He could still feel the sharp burn on his left breast, just under the collar bone. Absently, he touched it with his free hand, thinking again of how he felt to be permanently marked by James Moriarty. The letter 'M' would be engraved there on his flesh for years to come, judging by the depth, and possibly longer. And the need for Jim to do this puzzled Sherlock. Surely, there were easier…ah, but maybe not? Jim had obviously suffered much in his childhood. Perhaps this had led him to equate pain and sexual desire as the ultimate binding tools? He shook his head at his enemy's fallacy. The emotional warp and weft of this man beside him was baffling, even more so given that the detective himself was so completely inept at addressing things such as intimacy and -shudder- love.

One minute, he had been sure that Jim actually _would_ rape him the other night, especially after the detective had almost done the same to him…or had at least made it seem that way. Because he _was_ acting, Sherlock reminded himself. _He_ was in control, even with the drug in his veins, and _he_ had chosen to press Jim in such a manner. And in doing so, he had revealed a singular weak point in the criminal. Not apparent in normal interactions, no…but when pushed in an almost inconceivable manner. He had seen the cringe, the almost-defeat of someone who has been treated roughly in the past. He had already deduced as much concerning the man's history, but to see the degree to which it affected him, even still…it was actually a bit chilling to think of the things that might have been done to Jim that would actually make the madman himself shy away. Because what in all the world's imagining could possibly do that to James Bloody Moriarty?!

He put the thought out of his mind. For now, it didn't matter the cause. That was too distracting to dwell on. He needed real sleep, for once conceding that his transport was becoming slow and ungainly, especially due to the introduction of the drug in his system. He had rested in fits and jerks the night before. And prior to that…he couldn't remember. Disappointment in his mortal frailty made him sneer before he closed his eyes, his hand remaining clutched possessively by the other man. _At least this way, I won't have to wonder where he is, what he's up to_, he thought. _But then, how am I supposed to attempt unconscious rejuvenation while essentially unclothed and prone on a very hard surface_…? He sighed and let his mind drift. Hopefully he would stumble off into dreams eventually, despite the factors arrayed against it.

Sherlock awoke with a start, eyes squeezing closed tighter, and arms grasping reflexively to pull any available warmth closer to his chill skin, the gown having slid off his shoulders in his sleep. This caused a whuff of air to drift over his throat, which…didn't make much sense at all if his still-somewhat-lethargic mind was to be believed. He cracked a bleary eye open and immediately regretted it, closing it again. The windows of Jim's bedroom faced the rising sun. _Who does that_? he complained silently. He had apparently chosen to roll onto his back at some point in the night, and so was hit head on by the twinkling morning light. He raised his arms to cover his eyes…at least, he tried to. One was trapped.

He tested the arm in question, his right, tugging a large weight with it as he did. _Ugh, what_… his eyes opened and he glanced down…at the gently entwined form of a certain criminal mastermind. Jim's face was pressed against the edge of Sherlock's clavicle and throat, explaining the puff of air earlier. And the detective's right arm had been slipped beneath the other man and curled up the other side. He analyzed their positioning and concluded that there was no way to disengage and maintain the other man's slumber, unless Moriarty was a sodding deep sleeper, and so he settled for less tact.

"James!" The criminal hummed against Sherlock's neck, pulling closer. So the detective tried again.

"James! Up!" _Deep sleeper then_, he thought as the other man muttered something hushed into his skin, sending tingles through Sherlock's chest. And he was about to attempt a third try, when the man wrapped around him began to whisper.

"No. No, dearest. None of _those_ for you. You can't just…." A sigh that sound often repeated. "There isn't enough room for one. Yes. Yes. I will. And lots of it. Yes. All kinds. Mhmm, from the special store with the funny man. I bet that…" Sherlock continued listening, riveted to the strange one-sided conversation. Dreams did different things to different people, but now, at this moment, Sherlock Holmes could think of nothing funnier than laying here listening to James Moriarty sound like a scolding parent._ Probably telling off one of his drug mules_, he figured, though the speech seemed a bit mild for that. A few other gems fell from the other man's lips, and Sherlock actually let slip an audible laugh at one point, swallowing it back as the man he held began to stir from the depths he had been wading in. Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to feign his own sleeping pattern, respirations slowing down and slackness overtaking his muscles.

He knew the other man was awake now by the pattern of his inspiration and the slightly increased tempo of the heartbeat the detective could feel against his own skin. And it seemed the criminal was just as confused as _he_ had been upon first waking. The shorter man initially froze, then relaxed and seemed to be thinking, considering. He lay like that for what Sherlock deemed as a very long time indeed. _What is he about_…? the detective had began to wonder as Jim finally moved. There was light pressure at the hollow of Sherlock's throat, and then the other man pulled back and got unsteadily to his feet, walking for the door.

Sherlock listened intently as the footsteps faded into another part of the master suite. He could hear the other man rummaging around in a drawer before the sounds of approach occurred and Jim reentered the room. The soft padding of socks on wood ceased about two feet from where the detective's legs were extended, and he strained to deduce what was going on without seeming too cognizant of his surroundings.

"Sherlock." A pause. "Sherlock, I know you're awake." _Damn_, he gave in and opened his eyes to the barrel of a gun pointing down at his chest. A fiery thread of fear shot through him. This wasn't exactly what he had expected to find... The criminal smiled down at him, obviously having read his mind. The gun raised a few inches, and the finger tightened on the trigger as they faced off: one in sleep-rumpled clothing, the other with a dressing gown barely hanging on. The finger moved, the trigger deployed, the gun fired…and a stream of water shot out and hit Sherlock dead in the face.

Jim smirked as the detective wiped cold water from his face, the exposed skin prickling with the sensation of the gun's ammunition running over it. And the retaliatory glare was to die for. But Jim merely flipped the gun in his hand, catching it and tossing it behind himself where it clattered against a wall. Hands on his hips, he addressed the now fully awake detective.

"Get cleaned up. We've got a long day ahead of us, Sherlock. Bank in the morning; and a _party_ tonight. Must look our best!" Jim sang out as he retreated to the other room again. And Sherlock sat on the floor bewildered, once again, by the sheer strangeness of everything. It didn't last long, though, as the detective figured he had always been quite a bit odd on his own anyway. So he stood and made his way to the same adjoining room thinking he really should avoid his habit of sleeping in only pants whilst residing here. Even with the dressing gown, he felt a bit…exposed. Too many awkward things had the potential for occurring when clad thusly. Nothing for it right now, though.

He looked left and right, not finding the criminal in the large sitting area of the suite, and so he walked to the next door that seemed to lead on back into the set of rooms rather than away. And as he approached, he heard running water, which slowed him for but a moment before he bulled ahead again. Thinking himself all the more strange for being timid about the sound of water running but not particularly cautious about waking up wrapped in madman, he entered the large bathing area.

Quite decadent, this home's previous owner had been. And Sherlock was sure it suited Moriarty's fastidious nature just fine. The beautiful rose hued marble flooring spread beneath his feet to cover the entire room. And speaking of the room, it appeared as large, if not larger, than 221B. Making a face at the waste of space on a room dedicated to defection and exfoliation, he pointedly ignored the towel and cloth obviously set out for him and walked to the large counter with its sink, mirror, and toiletries. He stared at himself briefly in the mirror and ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of two days' worth of stubble. Wretched.

Looking around, he located a razor, new in the box, along with other small items that told him exactly how thoroughly Moriarty had studied him, knew his routine. He decided not to care, as it didn't really help anything anyway, and he opened the packaging on the razor while running hot water and splashing it around on his face; again, pointedly ignoring Jim in the shower, who had begun to alternately hum and sing a silly Irish tune about a drunken maid who had robbed a bank. He did, however, notice with something resembling amusement the Hello Kitty toothbrush on the side of the counter…in a matching cup, no less!

Sherlock applied the foamy cream and began to draw the blade along his skin with a practiced hand. He abhorred sloppiness, and so he set to making amends for the last day's shoddy appearance. So focused and absorbed was he on the task at hand that he never noticed the water turn off and the criminal approach him.

Sherlock had just pulled the blade away to run under the water when a hand swept around from behind and snatched it away from him. He placed both hands on the counter in front of him, determined not to engage in whatever silly notion had taken flight now in his captor's mind. Sherlock could never figure whether he was still quite angry or resentful at having been abducted. In fact, most of the time he felt nothing at all towards the events leading up to his current circumstances. It just _was_.

But sometimes…just sometimes_,_ mind…he felt _something_ else. A difference in his internal climate perhaps. An altering of his compass needle. And while this should have alarmed him greatly, he found it did not. Oh, it was still bothersome, no doubt of that. And he never stopped questioning Jim's motivations, never would. But he couldn't help but continue to wonder over how things had come to be this way, with him so comfortable in this murderer's company. The other part of him, though…it was intrigued by this puzzle, this riddle, this challenge. And if there was ever one thing that Sherlock Holmes loved, it was challenges.

He watched as the criminal reached up and turned his face with a gentle pressure under Sherlock's jaw. Then he tilted the detective's head up, first lightly running a finger down the side of the long column of exposed throat before bringing the blade up. It slid against his skin with a slight rasp as it began. It was an odd sensation, someone else shaving him. Not unpleasant, just different. The repetition was soothing, calming. A gentle drag down his throat, followed by an interrupted water stream, and the tap-tap of the blade against the counter before once more returning for another stroke. And the knowledge of _who_ was doing it, holding a blade against his skin that could end his life in very short order, gave Sherlock a kind of reckless feeling low in his belly. Jim smiled in a secretive way, not meeting his eyes, as if he had plucked the thought from the air around the detective's head.

Jim was actually very good at this, Sherlock found himself considering. And all in all, the entire thing was relaxing in its own way. Steam from the shower, and from the heated water pouring from the faucet, created an ethereal dimension to their activity. Every move was muted, softened. Sounds were dulled, and the world moved at a slower pace. Somewhere deep and unknown to his conscious mind, a thread of control was unraveling.

When Jim finished, he ran a hand over his work, nodding, then set the razor down and stared searchingly into the cerulean eyes that studied him in return. He decided something, apparently, and turned the spigot off before turning away. A last glance at Sherlock before Jim headed for his wardrobe left the detective feeling unbalanced. But he shook it off quickly and decided, again, to ignore the qualms he had. For the foreseeable future, _this_ was his life, his occupation. Adapting could only benefit him. And really, he found he didn't at all mind. So he turned for the shower, thinking over the events to come as the hot water danced over his skin.

_Now, a bank, then a party. No, wait…what? Where in bloody hell does James Moriarty go for a party?_


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: Eh, screw it. I'm just writing this crap for myself now, and to hell with all the rest!**

_The morning…after….._

Several times in the last few weeks, Moriarty had found himself questioning the status quo. Here again, was another instance. Undoubtedly a result of his dreams, though they were hazy and indistinct now, leaving only vague emotional impressions. When he had begun to awaken earlier, in the arms of his "enemy" no less, he had felt…nothing. No no no. Not _nothing_, per se. Rather, it was the lack of his inner demons that made it feel _as if_ there were nothing. Their absence was…uncharted. And had happened only once before. With the same man, and the same results. The thoughts echoing round his head found no purchase on the slippery slope of his awareness and sanity. It was as if he was free of the influence of his past, but was yet held under by something else. Something far more powerful and compelling…

Then he had opened his eyes. And it felt that way in a metaphorical sense as well. Tucked in and wrapped against Sherlock, he felt that unnamable _something_ shift inside him. And he completely bewildered himself by giving the detective a soft kiss on the throat, intimating an emotional attachment heretofore thought to be feigned on the criminal's part. Oh, he had felt the pull on his emotions whilst playing for the detective's own, hoping to further ensnare Sherlock within his plan for their criminal partnership; the complete 'turning' of Holmes being not a small part of it all. But…everything had always been done with Jim's audience in mind, planned and purposeful. The spontaneous kiss, though…it, had come from himself. And he wasn't quite sure how to deal with that knowledge. Not yet.

On the one side, his eventual strategy was for Sherlock to forsake his lawful inclinations and join with Jim in running a black empire unrivaled in all the civilized world. So then, what did it matter if the criminal let himself become attached in this manner if they were to be together in the future in every _other_ way? Partners in crime, partners in…what? But the more logical side of himself remembered the last, and only, time this had happened before, and how it had ended… And the thought of Seraena had him climbing to his feet to put distance between himself and the detective, if only for a moment. It was needed…right? Necessary. Distancing kept him safe. Kept others safe…from Jim.

He had attempted to play it off with his usual nonchalance, squirting Sherlock with the water gun in an attempt to become a human alarm clock. And Jim _did_ thoroughly enjoy that flicker of doubt that flashed across the detective's normally calm features upon finding a gun leveled with him. At least _that_ had fully woken him. Damn it, but the lanky git was a solid sleeper! Jim did have plans for them today, after all, internal emotional crisis or not. They needed to get moving. But once in the shower, the criminal's thoughts had continued to circle round, always convoluted, and always bringing him back around to the wild haired man on his bedroom floor…..who then entered the room to shave. And Jim couldn't resist his next actions...

It was a strange feeling, wanting to do…well, anything, for another person. Shaving was a mundane and almost ritualistic task to most, and yet Moriarty felt as if it were the most intimate of services he had performed yet on the other man. Peculiar. And Sherlock didn't seem to mind at all. Or if he did, he hid it well. The blade had done its work in fine order, leaving the taller man's skin smooth as silk under James' questing fingers. And they had stared, eye to eye, for a long moment after that, with the criminal marveling at how it felt inside of his chest right then. What was that? A buoyancy that both constricted and weighed him down while simultaneously seeming to expand his senses into the next world. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head almost imperceptibly as he reached the conclusion that, whatever it was, he liked it. And so he had left the detective standing there, to watch in befuddlement as Jim's towel clad form exited the room. To the gray-blue eyes that tracked him, Jim appeared cool and unfazed. The criminal's last thought on the matter, though, before turning his mind to business was, _Definitely more of that later_.

The remainder of the morning was somewhat uneventful, with Jim settling his stomach with a breakfast of fruit and toast, and Sherlock _torturing_ his own choice of eggs instead of actually eating them. It had been amusing at first. Until Moriarty tried to remember the last time he had seen Sherlock eat anything of substance. What followed was not one of Jim's more graceful moments. Physically restraining the larger man whilst forking eggs all over the both of them…well, it was a good thing the criminal had chosen to dine in the smaller, private breakfast nook. But in the end, four forkfuls of protein laden poultry output had managed to land squarely within the toothed confines of the detective's mouth…more or less…mostly…damn.

After changing out of clothing that had become quite…soiled…the two men made their slow way to the front of the mansion, a companionable silence falling between them. If companionable was even a word applicable to them. Jim reached the door before the other man and opened it with a flourish, as if for a lady. The dead look shot Jim's way let him know the poor jest had landed perfectly. And as the criminal moved to follow, he felt a rare true smile take hold of his lips. Though, now that he thought on it, those _rare_ expressions seemed to be occurring at a rate that would soon require an adjective adjustment. Perhaps…

He opened his mouth to further needle the detective but found his voice stolen by the sight in front of them. The mansion's front lawn spread before the main building, vast as ever, cut through by a smooth, paved drive that circled through and back out once more. A sleek Rolls awaited them with engine idling. Bushes and other well-kept foliage with flowery appendages lined the gray roadway. However, yesterday, and all the days before since moving in here, yellow and white had been the color of the flowering plants lining its edge. Today, though, there was an addition. Not overwhelming, no, but there for the observant to pick out. Which Jim was sure that Sherlock would, too. But the taller man had no idea what finding those delicate bell-shaped blossoms alluded to. But the now tense criminal did. James Moriarty the younger had been here. Or, at least, his people had.

Jim walked to the closest plant and reached out to run a finger over the small, purple petals. _Atropa belladonna_. How appropriate. Deadly nightshade. It seemed his brother was now getting better at presentational theatrics. The criminal felt a twinge of concern at the thought of what this might be implicating, but he dismissed it as an issue for later, possibly tomorrow. His brother was trying to wind him up, and Jim wouldn't allow it. Fear was something you felt, but you didn't fear it for itself alone. You were cautious, careful not to let its effects alter your course. So he smirked at the bother that his sibling must have gone to in order to place these, and he turned to his…accomplice, and gestured toward the waiting car. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the delay, but he said nothing. Jim was a strange one even when seemingly normal, after all. The automobile pulled away moments later, leaving the flowers trembling in its wake.

_Later the same morning… _

It could be said that it was a fine day. For London anyway. Less gloomy, less rainy. Not much else, except perhaps a good touch of Autumn chill. About 10:30 in the morning, and most people should have already found their destinations, be it work or otherwise. Citizens paced along the sidewalks and busy streets, dodging traffic and hurrying on towards the rest of their lives. Cab drivers collected fares, street vendors cried out to passersby, and police officers patrolled an otherwise stale shift. An outside observer would label it as indistinct, uninteresting, and bland. And yet, above it all, splayed on the rooftop of St. Bart's, two persons of interest, once presumed natural enemies and intellectual rivals, waited on the fruition of a collaborative effort.

They lay side by side on the gravel roof, their shoes leaning lightly against one another's, staring up into the clear summer sky. Jim lifted his arm to peer at his watch, then smiled and laid it back at his side. Beside him, the detective's face was impassive, unemotional; and the consulting criminal then adjusted his other arm a bit, shifting tiny pebbles along as he did. Slightly cautious, almost unsure, his marginally smaller hand slid fingers between longer, pale ones... No reaction. But no rejection either. Jim relaxed once more. They didn't look at one another, just continued to lie there. Waiting. Waiting…..

"Tick...tick...tick..." Jim whispered into the crisp air, his hand twining ever so slightly further into the detective's. He thought perhaps he could see straight on through to Heaven if allowed to do this every day. His eyes closed for a second as he attempted to capture the feeling… And a few blocks away, within the city, sirens began to alarm, their insistent cries announcing police and emergency personnel were en route. The shorter man's eyes flew open, and he said softly, "Boom!" Giggling, he glancing over at the dark haired man beside him and squeezed his hand, "C'mon. Get up." The criminal urged as he rolled to his feet in a crouch, hand remaining entwined. "Let's watch this thing you've done for me, my detective."

Again, the shorter man was met with a placid expression, as if the events unfolding held little or no interest…but Jim knew different. This was simply the mask that Sherlock projected to the world. Those kaleidoscopic eyes were a bright blue-gold in the weak sunlight, and they landed on soft brown ones as the entreaty finally penetrated the detective's concentration. The criminal repeated himself, at the same time realizing that he _never_ did that for anyone else.

"C'mon!" A light tug on the taller man's arm. "It's starting. We can roll back the security cams later, but right now...it's _live_." He heaved Sherlock's arm until the detective was standing, and then he pulled him to the edge of the rooftop. Below them, people were turning their heads toward the alarms a few blocks up the road. And further down the same street, police cars were weaving around traffic, with a few passing just beneath the pair, who looked on much as the Gods of ancient mankind must have. The bank to which the cars rushed had never stood a chance. With Sherlock's calculating evaluation of its blueprints and security features, supplied through the artful deceptions of Moriarty's crew, every flaw had been laid bare, exposed. And Jim used every bit of that knowledge to very gently break the detective in to this new, more sinister, role as Jim's….hmmmm, what? Jim found a very amusing question floating around and around as to how he would refer to their…relationship; if that was even the most efficacious term. No matter for now, though. His chosen match had just committed his first ever purposefully organized criminal event…effectively initiating Sherlock into his new career. Could there be such a thing as a consulting _criminal_ detective?

As they stared down at the speeding policemen and useless civilian populace, Sherlock grunted with a kind of laugh, causing Jim to look askance at him. The same expression was in place, but Jim could sense something more swimming behind the eyes that set the criminal's world afire when he stared too long; Moriarty found it much like falling headfirst into a terrible, beautiful kind of madness. And he always wanted more.

"What is it?" The detective heard asked of himself. And he flicked his eyes to Jim's before he looked up over the other rooftops and then slowly scanned around himself where he stood, almost as if considering their _physical_ positioning. He stared hard for a moment directly below himself, at the pavement spread out so far beneath his feet. Hard and permanent…unyielding to flesh... He halted his wandering gaze when it came to rest on the shorter man once again. His captor, his…what? He considered their clasped hands. No easy answer, that. He looked again below himself, wondering at the fleeting emptiness he felt awash in at times.

And as he gazed downwards, his brilliant, gemstone eyes seemed to manifest the ghosts of another choice...one not taken, one discarded...and he gave a half-sneer, half-smile, as he looked first away to the left and then back towards the criminal beside him. His stare seemed unfocused, and his contemplative state had returned. When Sherlock finally spoke, it was as if he was still thinking deeply even during the response.

"I just never...pictured our first time alone together, _truly_ alone…on a roof...going anything like…_this_..." A heavy pause followed the statement, with such a quantity of nothing behind it that any lower function thoughts were quashed immediately. Neither made a move to comment, though Jim did take particular note that Sherlock still clung to him, neither having let go of the other yet. Significant? With this particular Holmes it could mean everything in the world…or it could just be another way of working through a self-imposed experiment. That was the beauty of this relationship, if one could even call it that. It was strange, and wrong, and powerful, and mesmerizing, and…the most frustrating thing Jim had ever done. The criminal frowned down at his shoes, wriggling his toes within them as he thought. Still the silence persisted between them for long minutes as the alarms to the bank continued to sound in the distance. And then...beginning light and hushed, but growing to an almost harsh crescendo, Moriarty's laughter rolled off and down the rooftop, loud enough that people below looked upwards.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: My dog's accusing stare got this chapter finished finally. She made me feel so guilty…**

Jim's phone sang out with a brilliant trill, and he reached into his coat to pull it forth, squinting at the screen in the odd sunlight. The text lined up on the screen informed him of the success of the bank heist thus far. He smiled as the alarm continued to scream in the distance and turned his attention the man beside him. Sherlock stood loosely, fingers intertwined with the criminal's own even still. Whether he was conscious of it or not remained to be seen. The detective did many things without thought or awareness after all. But for now, Jim was content. The mystery only added to the delicious flavor of not knowing.

Effectively, Moriarty had accomplished many things this one day. The insipid fool who had dared give voice to a supposed "superior" security system had been rendered ridiculously impotent. Sherlock had completed his first truly criminal endeavor in interpreting and cracking the security features of the previously mentioned system and giving the findings to Jim. The shorter man had also discovered a way to calm the voices in his head…though that was still a particular oddity to be fathomed out. And lastly… He glanced down at his enveloped hand and gave the lightest of squeezes. Yes, he had also discovered something about himself that was previously unknown…and still unsounded.

Jim looked away from his detective. And caught himself. _His_ detective? He rolled the thought over within his mind's eye. _My detective_. He thought of the last few weeks, and the progress he'd made towards his original goal, though the lines seemed to have blurred as to its founding purpose. He thought also of the changes he was belatedly witness to occurring within himself; even as he had observed the other man's evolution, he should have been monitoring his own as well... Critiquing one's self was always painful…but necessary here. And in his self-examination, he saw a pattern emerge…one of ownership, codependence, and yet….dominion. The detective seemed almost…possessed. Not in the sense of the spiritual, no, but in _belonging_. As if he truly were owned. And Jim found he did not entirely loathe or reject the idea. Owned…. _Yes. Yes, he was. __**Is**__. _He hid his smirk_. Mine. My detective._ There was no question really. Opposition was natural to those such as they. Inevitable. As he had watched Sherlock form and discard plans of his own, so too did the criminal observe the slow capitulation of the other man's resistance, each attempt coming with less and less strength. They were meant for each other. Made to fit together. Their pasts drew them forth from different positions morally; but in the beginning, they were the same. And would be again…

Jim hopped back, finally releasing the taller man's hand as he did. The detective turned to follow the motion, and the criminal indicated with his shoulder to come along before turning completely and heading for the door back down to ground level. Sherlock watched him go and turned his eyes once more to the siren call of the bank's alarm system. His eyes narrowed as he tried to locate the many police vehicles drawn to the site. Then his gaze tracked back to the retreating form of the most wonderfully confusing man in his world. Dark curls tilted, razor sharp mind focused. Choices flashed around him, past, present, and future possibilities. He blinked once, slowly. And just as Jim reached the rusted out door, the shorter man heard the crunch of shoes over gravel behind him. Moriarty's smile returned as he pulled the door open and held it aside. Dark brown met crystal gray as they stood before the blackened portal. Seconds passed around them, and something _else_ passed between them. Neither broke; and they entered the gloom together.

They entered a suitably status-proclaiming limo minutes later when they emerged from the building. The detective entered the automobile behind Jim, and they settled in beside each other, neither having actually consciously decided on being hip to hip, but it happened all the same. Which should have seemed odd to at least one of them, given how spacious the interior was. Jim flicked out a mobile phone in the hand closest to Sherlock, motioning for the other man to take it as he spoke.

"Programmed to only let you contact myself or any others I may deem appropriate to code into it." The wild haired detective looked on in confusion at the brightly lit screen in his hand.

"I don't…"

"In case we ever need to be parted for my…business purposes. Not everyone in the world would be happy to have you along with me." Jim's voice slipped dark for a second as he finished with, "And this way, Daddy can keep in touch." But then Jim grinned and stretched his arms in front of him, attempting to position himself in such a way that told Sherlock they would be in the vehicle for a good while. He flicked off the screen lock of the phone. _And no doubt this can keep even closer tabs on me_, thought the detective as he examined his odd gift. But then, what did it matter anyway? He was already practically owned by this man. And he positively couldn't find reason to be concerned, no matter how much he recognized the danger. He began to fiddle with the mobile's settings as he let his mind drift.

Different. Something was different, Sherlock was musing as the limousine pulled away with the two of them comfortably stowed inside. It took but the time to actually notice the discrepancy for him to answer his own query as he gazed across at the empty seat facing him. The criminal himself was actually seated beside him instead of across. Not that he minded. Just noticed. His skin could almost feel the other's distance next to him. As if he could close his eyes and be able to seek out James Moriarty by "sense" alone. Which was preposterous, of course. And he knew that. He knew that…and yet. He closed his eyes in a whimsical effort to test the theory.

There was a sudden pressure on his shoulder, and it startled his eyes back open, though he quickly registered the source. Thinking on it now, he could well assume that not even three months ago, the thought of this criminal mastermind, his penultimate archenemy, leaning drowsily on his shoulder would have caused him no end of consternation, mental and physical. Now, it was…not uncomfortable. Nearly…pleasant. Yes. Comforting almost, as Sherlock had often felt quite alone even with Mycroft as a like-minded childhood companion. Mycroft was even less emotional than the detective himself. And so, as far as family involvement in his upbringing…Sherlock was far lacking in the human connection.

Jim though… Jim was like _him_…but not. It was as if the criminal had discerned a way around the total closeting of emotions that Sherlock utilized. The shorter man seemed almost like…like he felt _too_ much at times, and so compensated by exploding in his fits of volatile anger. And though it seemed so alien to the detective, he could almost envy the other man his skill at redirecting such things outwardly into productivity. After all, Jim was a veritable emperor of his underworld. A genius without the boundaries of such trivial and mortal things as morality and fealty to others. His was a life that embodied the freedom Sherlock had always sought, yet never captured. Certainly, the detective never desired the overt harm of others, but…sometimes they simply got in the way. And no one had ever understood this. Until now. Until James.

What didn't happen next was Sherlock wrapping his arm around his enemy. Nor did he lean against the other in turn. And he certainly didn't press a soft kiss into the perfectly combed strands tickling his neck. No. These things didn't happen; but the recollections of many socially appropriate relationship behaviors ran through the detective's mind as he sat there, a human pillow. And he discarded each as it fell into his scrutiny. Finally, the detective settled on what he deemed a safe enough move, as it had already occurred with a somewhat alarming frequency that day anyway.

Jim felt the cool, slender fingers slide over the back of his hand and settle lightly, as if unsure and testing. He remained still, knowing instinctively that if he reacted at all at this moment the detective would withdraw. And shortly, the true weight of that extremity was rested on his own, caution having faded with time and patience. The car's steady rocking and white noise of its engine lulled the criminal into a peaceful state rarely experienced. Yet another anomaly particular to this human enigma he leaned against. It would be a long drive to where they were going, and so Jim drifted, eyes cast downward and observing the hand over his own. He was almost gone when one of those long fingers slowly began to trace a circle over the dorsal surface of the criminal's hand. Jim's eyes slid shut finally, and he thought conclusively, _Mine_.

Sherlock had felt Jim drop off into semi consciousness the second it occurred. Such was the power and command of the other man's mind that it almost had a physical presence of its own. And the detective felt the absence of its attention acutely. He glanced down, and, thinking that the other was too far gone to notice, he began to draw concentrically with a finger of the hand atop of the other man's. Simple touch, human and warm. So…different. So intriguing. Studies he had read pointed toward defects of character, and even of health, if one were deprived of this most basic of connections. He closed his eyes as if to join Moriarty in his slumber, and he thought of his own actions earlier that week with a bemused perspective.

The detective had a gift. Of the birthing nature. That is, he had a birthday gift for the man confined here in the vehicle with him. The day of which was fast approaching. October 21st. And he hoped that his instructions to the madman's agent had been explicit. Everything would have to happen with almost perfect precision to capture the right moment. But, time would tell. What was the agent's name? Moron, or something? Sean, Sebastian, something…Moron. Well, no matter. The man was one of the more frequent personal details of Moriarty, so Sherlock was sure he would see him again to ask if his request had been carried through. After all, he didn't know just how much courtesy Jim's men would extend to him since they most likely still regarded him as part of the opposing side of the law. He sighed lightly. It was an intriguing notion at any rate, his gift. Jim did so love things that burned….

It was almost noon when they reached a place that seemed cut off from the rest of humanity. In reality, it wasn't all that far out of the reach of civilization, but it was distanced enough that the helicopter wouldn't be noticed coming and going. Speaking of which, as the detective's curious gaze ran over the distinguishing features of the chopper, he realized the price tag of this one aircraft. He often forgot, and easily, how far reaching and deep Jim's financial resources were. And looking at the AW101 VVIP, he thought to himself that the man he was accompanied by _never_ did anything half-arsed. When the criminal saw Sherlock studying their mode of transport, he smiled.

"Only the finest, my detective." Yes, that's right, Jim was trying out the label, thank you very much. "It reaches almost 320kph and ranges for about 1300 kilometers. Won't be in it for that long, though. Just going to my air strip, then we'll take a jet to our destination."

"Which is?" the detective inquired, wondering what else could possibly be in store for them that day. And Jim smiled in his secretive way as they pulled themselves into the cabin and began fastening the seatbelt harnesses over themselves.

"Czech, I think. Maybe elsewhere. Apparently, some idiots want to throw me a birthday party," came the seemingly casual reply. It was delivered with the perfect intonation of one who cared not a bit, and no one should ever think to question it. Except for Sherlock, who now had even better insight to his once-enemy's thoughts and motivations. No, not a casual statement at all. Hate underlay it. And the criminal's next words only served to confirm his deduction. "Obviously, no one has deemed it necessary…to inform people of how much I _**HATE**_ birthdays!" Typically mercurial and shifting, Jim's mood had gone from deadly calm to inferno pissed in the space of a sentence. His eyes held black murder in their depths… But, just like that, he was composed again and looked across to the detective, smirking slightly. "They hope to gain favor by doing something so _ordinary_. I do hope they've something to take my mind off of this egregious infraction. Otherwise, I will make my own…entertainment." Sherlock's head tilted at the threat he knew was very real.

The detective understood the menace present in Jim's words. This man never spoke anything without purpose, and here he was informing Sherlock that things had the potential for ending badly tonight. Well, badly for the host perhaps. _But why warn me?_ pondered the taller man. And it came to him swiftly, though one would never know to look at his exterior that he was so lost in his own evaluations. _Hmmm, he thinks to warn me off in case my 'angelic' constitution cannot handle it?_ He shot a look of disbelief at the other man, but it was lost as Jim was engrossed in emailing clients from his mobile. _None of those we encounter is likely to be an 'innocent' in any sense of the term, so their fate is no concern of mine, _the detective concluded. Still, he thought it should have been somewhat apparent at this point that he wasn't all that opposed to Jim's nature. But, perhaps he hadn't been so transparent as he had believed? He had been told, and often, throughout his life that his countenance was made for poker tournaments.

He felt them tip a bit as the helicopter lifted from the grass, and the doors slid shut and bolted automatically. The detective ran his eyes along Jim Moriarty, planning a line of inquiry. And rather than trying to be heard over the takeoff, he pulled out the new mobile and swiped the screen on.

Jim's brow furrowed as a text alert flashed at the top of his display. Very few people actually had his direct mobile number, so he toggled out of the email app and opened the text. His eyes flicked up and met the detective's sparkling ones, inner mirth concealed not one whit. Then Jim's eyes slid back to the screen as he, in turn, smiled.

**Thinking I'm still on the fence? –SH**

**Depends on what fence you speak of. –JM **

**Criminal. –SH**

**Ah, well. I had thought it would take a bit more adjusting is all. –JM**

**I can't imagine why. –SH**

**Other than you kidnapping, torturing, and drugging me, that is. –SH**

**;) –JM**

**What is that even of? –SH**

**It's an emoticon. A winking smiley. –JM**

**To what purpose? –SH**

***sigh* To show what one is feeling or express things otherwise difficult to do in simple texts. –JM**

**But you're just sitting right across from me. –SH**

**[Yes, but if you would ju -deleted] [You could -deleted] Oh, nevermind. –JM**

**Anyway, I don't see what you're getting at. But feel free to continue on. I am here for the ride. –SH**

**And the Game. –JM**

**And the Game. –SH**

**E/N: Oh lawd, am I about to have some fun with these boys….**


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: In case anyone wants to see the dance I attempt to describe later on in this chapter, here is a link to it. Of course, you have to put it together since this site doesn't allow me to post the unbroken link as one term. The actual dance part is at the 1:50 mark, in case you want to skip the introductions. LOL! **

**gp1P_DT7O-w**

**At any rate, get ready for this the crap I do here, guys….so much fun!**

"Just two weeks from now? Wha…?! How did you come by this information?!" John exclaimed as he waved a hand wildly in the air, the other pressed into the skin of his forehead. Lestrade paced hurriedly back and forth in the doctor's lonely flat. It seemed to him that his shoes echoed more loudly than was strictly natural. The DI ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his eyes and entire manner screaming desperation with a faint tinge of hope, but not any more so than the other man to whom he spoke. He stopped his motion momentarily to reply.

"It came from….well, I don't rightly _know_, actually…" he began somewhat lamely, as if searching for the correct way to explain.

"What? You barge in here with news like that without even checking sources? How do we even know for sure that they'll _be_ there? That _Sherlock_ will be there? _And_ that it's not some sort of trap, or display, or, or some other such disgusting thing that that madman can come up with?!" After weeks upon weeks of nothing, it was hard for the ex-soldier to react with anything but suspicious negativity. The poor sod had such a quantity of helplessness and rage building over the few months Sherlock had been gone, so it came as no true surprise to the DI when this stream of pessimism assaulted him. And so he tried to be the cool one here.

"John, calm down. The thing is…well…the thing is, it came from a higher authority than my own…..his brother…" Greg was frustrated as well, but he damned sure wasn't going to let it twist him the way it was doing the physician currently. John stared uncomprehendingly back at him for a few moments before speaking. He seemed almost confused.

"Mycroft?" And Greg nodded his confirmation.

"So you know it's got to be at _least_ already investigated for fraudulent feeds of information," the DI pleaded. "I mean, come on…" John bit his bottom lip, thinking. Mycroft would never tell them anything unless he was certain of it.

"And," John began, "He told you this, why?" A feeling of dread was pooling in his gut.

"He needs our help." Greg's entire reply seemed tainted with despair. "Everyone's." That the great Mycroft Holmes was enlisting the help of the Yard was…worrisome. In the extreme. The DI resumed his pacing, but slowed it somewhat. "Moriarty has eluded him for years, John; the only vigilante to ever be actively pursued by Mycroft Holmes, personally, and not be brought down. He's bringing everything, John. And I mean _everything_. Short of air support, we'll have every tactical advantage. _And_ we'll have two weeks to prepare for this, for him." John stared, lost in the emotions that whirled through him at the possibility of finally ending this. Lestrade seemed to sense that the doctor needed some time to think, but he spoke once more before heading for the door.

"John…just let me know, yeah? Off the books, 'course, cuz you can't be known to be there when it goes down, but…I just _cannot_ see this going through without you. You're his best friend." The DI sighed in a manner more suited to a laugh. "His _only_ friend, to his mind." With a final exhalation of pent up stress, the DI grabbed up his coat from where he had tossed it over a chair and made to leave when a soft, yet steel-strong voice carried out to him, and he stopped but didn't look back at the speaker.

"Greg….. Thank you." A pause. "I'll be there." And Greg nodded, still not turning, and left 221B. John spun around to fall back onto his old tatty arm chair and think.

Sherlock. In London. With Moriarty. In the British Museum. His head spun. Two weeks. They had two weeks in which to plan for this. And the information had to be current and reliable, right? Mycroft would never stoop to rumor or other such unreliable methods of intelligence gathering… But then, it was becoming increasingly apparent over the last few visits that the elder Holmes was residing within a similar emotional state as the ex-soldier. The British Government merely hid it more professionally. But there was something… Still, surely the man wouldn't let sentiment crowd out his logic? No. No, he wouldn't. So John breathed a slight sigh of relief. Soon. It would be soon. Two weeks for the NSY and Mycroft's agents to plan out the apprehension and take down of James Moriarty. And he, John Watson, would be there to see it through. He closed his eyes, heart heavy with a dark anticipation, almost a foreboding. _Sherlock….hang on_.

Greg all but fled the address he just exited, making his way quickly to his car. And once settled inside, he took a moment to breathe and center himself. He had known Sherlock first, but he considered John a friend by this point as well, and it was hard being the one to dangle such hope in front of him. Still, the informant had been thoroughly investigated by Mycroft's people. The DI shuddered to contemplate what exactly "thoroughly investigated" might indicate in this case.

Still, it was a solid lead. And…it was all they had. No matter the resources being utilized, Moriarty seemed to vanish whenever any trace was uncovered with him involved. Two weeks should be sufficient, especially given the sheer might being brought down for this. But something bothered him; badly. The last time he had spoken with Mycroft via video conference, the elder Holmes had made comments that just…didn't sit right in Greg's stomach. Surely, they were words meant just for show, in case anyone was listening… After all, even a man in Mycroft's position couldn't justify such a blatant display of arms just for the sake of his younger sibling. So he needed it to be for Moriarty. But even so…his parting words through the LCD monitor had left an impression. A bad one.

_When it happens, Lestrade, I need you to be ready. There won't be time for hesitation amongst our coordinated efforts. I need your support, and your complete obedience, in this. Plans are not yet cemented, but an approximation is this: At some point, they will exit the building. All predictions would indicate that James Moriarty is enough of a showman that he will want to exit the front in some such grand fashion. Make an exhibition of it. And from the footage we have seen of the two of them, I am certain Sherlock will accompany his every move. And we will have snipers in every available niche. Once they are a goodly distance from the building, our presence will be made known, and we will begin the attempted negotiation and arrest of both of them. They will be separated immediately, of course. I would like to think all will go as planned, but this man has been hunted for far too long, and he is cunning, ruthless, and has a fierce intelligence. If I sense things going the wrong way, I will have my men put the last bullet in that madman that he will ever lay claim to. And… Concerning my brother….. My men have orders to go through anything to make the shot on James Moriarty….._

_Anything…_

_Or __**anyone**__… _

_Do you understand me, DI Lestrade?_

The ride over on the jet had been inconsequential enough that Sherlock had deleted most of it. They had landed the chopper, boarded the jet, and then had flown maybe a little more than an hour or so after. Hard to say when boredom leads you to staring at the lines on the back of your knuckles. Jim had spent the bulk of his time on a laptop that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Or, perhaps the detective had merely erased the source. Whatever. The point was, he was more than bored by the time they landed and loaded themselves into yet another mode of transportation in the form of a sleek Rolls. Only the promise of interacting with dozens of the world's leading criminals kept him from experimenting with their driver's attention span. That, and Jim reading his transparent thoughts at one point and nonverbally communicating, _No_.

His ennui vanished, however, the second they drove onto the vast expanse of woodland that was marked off by armed guards. Sherlock knew Jim was a terror even to his own kind, but he'd had absolutely no idea the depth it ran. From the moment their car was spotted, the detective could see the signs of increased stress on the guards' bodies. The sharp and hard angles of their stance spoke of precision training, but also of…fear. Base and unconquerable. They didn't even check them, though they had made those in cars ahead of them go as far as get out of the vehicle and be looked over. Not Jim. How…intriguing it was to see this side of things. Thus far, Sherlock had only seen Jim around his own agents or himself. Never had he witnessed the criminal's interactions with peers. Suddenly, the game became even more interesting. And he fleetingly wondered at the reaction he might receive himself. Though not famous worldwide, there were sure to be those who researched him immediately after meeting him tonight. What would they do? He smiled inwardly, eager to arrive.

It still took them around fifteen minutes to reach the goal destination, winding through the property. The trees cleared out, and off in the distance the main building could be seen of an estate house almost on par with the one he and James currently resided in. But apparently, they were headed for what appeared to be an "open" house. Roof and floor were present, but no walls, leaving it like a huge gazebo for semi-outdoor parties. Large columns supported it. It was about twilight at the moment, and so the light from the structure leaked out onto the grass surrounding its girth. Globes of light were strung about its outskirts, allowing those attendees who wished to do so ample lit areas to stroll about the lawn.

They pulled round to the front and were let out of the vehicle by a somewhat short and stocky fellow who turned out to be the host, Jordaine Mikelson. Probably of Hindu Indian descent mixed with a smattering of American and French by Sherlock's observation, which made the man himself difficult to describe as anything much other than 'average.' Dark eyes and hair with a full beard, and skin that most likely stayed that light tan color no matter the lack of sun exposure summed it up fairly well, though. The fact that the host of the gathering himself had chosen to personally serve as valet and greeter to Jim was not lost upon the detective. It may be a party in the criminal's honor, but even still…he would have expected an aloof power play of some sort, with the host remaining inaccessible for a short time before deigning to make contact. This, however, this…made Sherlock truly boggle at the might that Jim must have behind him.

Moriarty was at his elegant best, slyly delivering compliments while slipping in devilishly clever insinuations of death and misery. Jordaine was obviously ecstatic that the criminal had even shown up, though, and so accepted the good with the bad equally. Apparently, Jim got many such invitations all the time, and only randomly chose which ones to attend. The detective watched him as he continued speaking with the host, burning through formalities and pleasantries, and then skipping along through a bit of business whilst they all walked on into the open-sided structure. He never made promises, except that he would 'consider' anything brought before him. And he didn't indicate either favor or disfavor to anything said. It was fascinating to watch him move amongst these people who Sherlock had originally miscalculated by deeming as peers. No. These were like unto the strange fish of the ocean who fed off of the larger ones and performed some small services in return. Symbiosis, but with Jim as the major player and master of the relationship.

Jim had introduced Sherlock only to Jordaine thus far. The only reaction being a slight widening of the eyes, but the man had recovered quickly and shook hands with the detective. Only Jim Moriarty could walk into a den of criminals, accompanied by a renowned detective, merely explain it away as, "He's with me," and not be questioned in the slightest. And Sherlock found himself growing to like the feeling of absolute surety he had beside James. It was…different, than with normal people. Like he didn't have to pretend that he, too, was 'normal.' Jim never hid the evil that writhed behind his eyes, he merely added to it. Laughter, anger, sadness, joy….they all merely shared temporary space with what lay always inside.

Only a few other guests as of yet had taken notice that Jim had arrived, and those who did had attempted to calmly greet him and pretend they weren't as intimidated of his presence as they truly were. To Sherlock's keen senses, though…hands shook, eyes darted about, voices wavered, and remarks were withheld. He missed most of what was said around him because of becoming so engrossed with watching Moriarty himself. These people who, from the snatches of conversation he did happen to overhear, were of some of the most elite villains of the world had a very real fear of the man beside himself. It startled Sherlock to realize it. Even before Jim and he had become…whatever it was that they were to each other currently, he had never _feared_ the man. Respected, yes. Admired, yes. But feared? Never. And he wondered at that. Perhaps it was yet another sign of the way things were eventually going to end up? Sherlock broke out of his reverie to Jim's quiet nudging.

"Sherlock? Are you listening? Come back to me." Jim's brown eyes laughed at his distance.

The detective snapped his attention back to the present as Jim held up his mobile for him to take. Gray-green eyes reflected a question of why.

"People haven't noticed me, yet, my detective. And I absolutely abhor when people don't notice me."

"Why the phone?"

"There's a video there I want you to watch. Study it. Tell me when you're done." And Jim walked away from him, heading to the DJ stand from whence a man with curly white hair seemed bent on playing elevator music. Sherlock looked on for a moment, still baffled, but then directed his attention to the screen and clicked play.

Jim returned a few minutes later to find his detective doing what he could only figure was deducing everyone on the entire ballroom-like floor. _How exhausting. There must be close to one hundred people or so. Boredom never rests, it seems_…_let's see if __**I**__ can distract you_… Sherlock saw Jim approach and cut off his study of a man who apparently dealt in arms smuggling in South America. At least, that was his latest venue. Jim stepped up to stand just before him to ask…

"Watch it all then?"

"Yes." A pause, and a smirk formed on Jim's face as he continued the topic, knowing Sherlock's hidden love of dancing.

"And…want to do it?" Another pause, this time from Sherlock, before the response came with a condition attached.

"Yes. But I refuse to perform in the submissive. The lead requires the taller of the pairing anyway." And Jim's smirk only deepened at the reply.

"Of course. As you wish…" He waved over at the DJ's stage set up, and the man nodded his acceptance. The genteel music that had been lightly pervading the space up until then stopped abruptly. People turned this way and that, seeking the source, thinking perhaps there was to be an announcement. Any wavering from scheduled events while in such dangerous company often created an organized feeling of discomfort and mild hysteria. But as the onlookers watched, a small space near the center of the floor began to form a haphazard circle, wherein a pair of men stood at opposite ends facing each other down with expressions generally reserved for battlefields. The occupants fell silent as they recognized one of the pair as the honorary guest. The anxiety level switched up by ten notches with this knowledge.

Jim fought to keep the smile from his face as the attendees finally noticed them. He could see when they recognized him, body language going fearful and attentive at once. And he could even see that some few recognized the detective as well. No matter. As long as Jim was present, they would never presume to act against the taller man. The criminal's attention was snatched back to reality suddenly as the first note sounded out of the Latin melody he had chosen to fit with their dance. The choreography was that of an Argentine Tango, and the level of difficulty was…well, he would finally see just how well that Mind Palace of Sherlock's functioned when it came to replicating physical acts from memory.

Jim stepped forward gracefully with the music, matching the detective across from him step for step as they approached one another. He slid his marvelously expensive jacket from his shoulders as he did and tossed it out to the audience. A very scantily clad blonde caught it, clutching it as though her life depended on it. And really, maybe it did…

The two men crossed each other, clasped hands, and spun into an embrace as the spicy music rolled around them. Sherlock lifted Jim and set him down a few paces away then, both doing some very creative leg maneuvers in between. Out and in they wove their steps, coming face to face at times with an animalistic look of hunger in their eyes. And some small look of surprise found itself onto even Sherlock's face as Jim completed some of the sweeping leg choreography generally better suited to a female dancer. But somehow, as with everything else, this brown-eyed Irishman showed him something unexpected.

Their bodies wove a tale of hunger and passion in order to communicate the story of the dance itself. But there hardly needed to be any acting between the two; even the audience was coming to see that as the dance progressed. They were around and under each other, lifted and pulled, close yet far….only to finish in an embrace that bespoke of love eternal, suddenly discovered. The elusive emotion finally captured. Jim's grin couldn't be held within any longer once the music faded. He kept his eyes closed for just a few more moments, held tightly in the taller man's embrace, and he wondered what Sherlock thought of all this. No matter; the other man would tell him eventually. The detective never held his tongue, and that was a constant excitement to Jim. He whispered to the taller man.

"Now then…I feel our introduction went quite well…"

A good smattering of applause greeted the ending, and many approached the pair, though some were put off almost immediately by the consulting detective. His cool eyes and knowing air apparently could put off even death-hardened outlaws. Jim took the praise in good stride, though Sherlock could tell that the other man still hated even being there. It made him ever the more curious as to what reason Jim had to hate birthdays so. But for now, he wanted nothing more than to get away from the people crowding around them. He would ask the shorter man about it later.

Sherlock excused himself, saying he was going to grab them a drink. Jim gave him an odd look, but shrugged his assent, and the detective walked off in the general direction of the refreshment tables. Jim's head turned slightly to accommodate the conversation of the newest arrival to his sycophants. The blonde that had caught his jacket. She held it out to him with hands that _almost_ didn't tremble, and as he took it from her, he was surprised yet again at the stupidity of mankind as she began to flirt somewhat heavily. Her red dress was tight, and she did have what some would term a very attractive figure, with curves in all the right places. Breasts barely concealed by the plunging neckline jiggled and shook as she tittered about how wonderful his latest game in Iran was going. All Moriarty could do was to wonder how this slut of a woman could possibly be in charge of the human trafficking market in India and Slovenia.

That he despised her was apparently not being read correctly by the blonde, who continued to prattle on about ideas she had, and wouldn't he love to come over for a chat about them? And maybe she could _persuade_ him to see things her way? And wouldn't it be grand if they could collaborate together on something, anything? She was desperate, Jim could see that. She wanted power, and _he_ would certainly be the quickest way to fuck her way to the top. But she obviously had no eyes in her head since she had just been in the same room as the spectacle he and Sherlock created. And besides…human trafficking? Child labor? Sex slaves? Among all criminal activities, her area was what he most abhorred. She somehow didn't pick up on this, and it annoyed him in a deadly way that he tried to ignore….

While she rambled on, and he chose to play the part of, "Uh-huh, yeah, mhmm," he looked around the area for Sherlock to see how he was fairing. And he almost laughed when he saw the detective had managed to keep to himself. _Most likely scared them all off either from them being too concerned of my own reaction…or just his overall fuzzy charm_. He watched the other man as if the world were contained in his every action, raptly and deaf to anything else. Until suddenly he felt a pressure alongside him.

Apparently, his inattentive replies had had the opposite effect, and the disgusting filth was taking it as a cue to draw closer and press her overburdened chest against him. His hands remained in his pockets for the time being, and she moved a bit to her right in order to place herself more firmly on his front. This effectively blocked his view of the detective, sending a shard of blackness screaming up his spine to reflect in his eyes, all pretense of cordiality vanishing. And, there it was, she caught it now. And her face showed that she recognized the miscalculations of her conversational skill.

Jim's eyes were dead as he simply tilted his head like a snake eyeing a mouse, and her blood chilled down to the marrow of her bones. One elegant hand left his pocket and came up before her face to touch the side of her jaw. She held still, not knowing what else she could do. The hand ran slowly down her chin and then her face was abruptly covered by his splayed fingers. He stood like that for a bare moment, letting the fear run its course through her, and then his grip on her face tightened, and he heaved her to the ground where she tumbled in a heap of silk the color of blood. He didn't even look down, nor around at those who had turned to eye the situation blossoming amongst them. He just set out for Sherlock, stepping on the hem of her dress and then over her shaking body as he did.

Sherlock was looking into the punch as if it had committed some grievance against him when Jim approached. His eyes swung away from the liquid to meet those of his dance partner's when the criminal spoke.

"Having fun?"

"No."

"Mm. Me neither. I _hate_ birthdays, especially mine. No one ever _gets_ that, though." The detective nodded, thinking.

"Do you want to leave then?"

"Not…yet…" the criminal began, as if considering something. Sherlock saw the look and inquired.

"What?" Jim's eyes focused back on the detective. Then he smiled into those gorgeous color-shifting orbs.

"Yes. I think I would…like to leave. But first…"

"First…?" the detective prompted. And those brown eyes before him became filled with something…uncomfortable.

"Let's blow this place up, detective. Scare 'em real good. How about it? Remind them of how _changeable_ I can be…"

Sherlock heard the words and watched as Jim's hand swept back to the holster that carried his Beretta. The detective had thought it odd when he had seen everyone else entering the party being searched, except Jim. They were reeeeally going to be reconsidering that, he bet as he ran through the possible scenarios to follow. Then his mind raced as it considered the alternatives and the consequences. He found more pros than cons, though, oddly enough. After all, these were the _bad_ people, right? Surely it didn't matter if they shot up a gathering full of people like this? Then Jim handed the gun to Sherlock, who stared at it quizzically until the shorter man reached back and pulled a second from the other side.

"Always prepared. I'm like a boy scout." Sherlock made no comment on that particular misnomer. And Jim turned away from him, lifted the gun, and fired up at the ceiling. The reaction was instantaneous. In a group of treacherous individuals, everyone's awareness was already threadbare, and so they moved very quickly indeed when the anticipated violence finally broke out. People fled in every direction since the structure had no true walls, just columns. Tables were upended, chairs strewn about, and belongings abandoned as the two men fired all about themselves. No one seemed inclined to return the attack, given who was on the offense.

Sherlock fired into the ceiling, into the wall, into the chandelier, and then he took aim on a particularly ugly ice sculpture of what appeared to be a retarded iguana. And suddenly a red dress flashed before him…and froze at the sight of the gun trained over her heart. She stood perhaps ten feet away, disheveled blonde tresses knocked loose from the elegant display they had been set in earlier. One heel was broken, and she limped from the ankle that had twisted when it did. The detective drew conclusions from other pieces of her appearance that she was a highly placed official, if not the head, of a modern day slavery operation. Children in particular. His gaze narrowed, and her breath hitched. His eyes were flat as she looked on them.

And then Jim was there behind him, inches from touching, and drawing closer. The criminal was simply observing with interest. But then he _was_ touching, bringing his chest to Sherlock's back. The detective heard the slip of a gun into a holster. And then hands were running lightly over his hips, up his ribs, to his shoulders, and then into his visual field along his extended arms and double-handed grip on the firearm. Jim's left hand came to rest underneath, and in support of, Sherlock's own left arm that steadied his aim. The other hand ran all the way to the gun itself before backtracking a moment, as if stroking. Then it flowed smoothly out and over the long, pale grip until it was as if the consulting criminal were holding the gun _through_ Sherlock Holmes. And Moriarty brought his face almost beside the detective's own, cheek brushing just behind the taller man's ear. The criminal's lips caressed the lobe as he spoke, with the woman remaining paralyzed before them.

"There now, Sherlock. What have you got here, hmm?" No reply was forthcoming from the detective, so Jim continued. "Looks like…ah, a _criminal_!" And Jim laughed suddenly, startling the woman into even greater depths of terror. "Yeessss, detective. And she is bad. _Very_. Stealing _things_ is one consideration; but stealing _people_…?" His voice dropped an octave as he whispered, "Stealing children? Selling…_children_…" Sherlock's grip adjusted on the gun, moving Moriarty's hand with own as he did so. "Surely she deserves nothing better than death?"

Jim reveled in the situation that had presented itself. Having Sherlock assist in the bank job had been nice. A clean start for his detective. But this….this was the very line of hazy gray that he dwelt within always. _Any_ action could be justified. You just had to dig deep enough. This one was just a tad easier to discern an answer for, though, the way he saw it. But he knew it wouldn't be so easily decided upon for Sherlock, so he continued his part in the game with his words of encouragement, breaking the remainder of the detective's willpower with his soothing Irish lilt. Slowly, so slowly….

"A small crime, Sherlock. Not even worthy of such a great mind as yours considering it. Besides…it's so much easier…after your first…"

Sherlock's mind was in complete disharmony. So many things clamored for his attention. Morality. Law. Duty. Truth. Justice. They became embroiled in battle with the situation he found himself in, staring down the barrel of his gun at a person who would hurt others, take away their lives. There was no alternative here. If she didn't die, she would leave, and continue…surely he couldn't allow that? Surely _that_ was worse than the death of such a person on his conscience? His body was beginning to betray his weakness to James, he knew. The criminal could almost certainly feel the raised level of his pulse as he stood there against him, feel the heat being generated from the effort of holding himself back. And he must. Hold. Himself. Back.

"She'll kill them now. All of them. Because you've seen her," Jim said, confirming what Sherlock already knew. But it was horrible all the same. He knew…he _knew_ that this woman deserved death. He knew it. And his finger tightened over the trigger, Jim's own following the movement. The woman's eyes tracked the motion. Yes. He knew it…he could _feel_ the change within himself.

And what was there to stop him?

_Who_ was there to stop him?

There must be _someone_…

_Someone_…

There was….was….

Mycroft?

…

No.

…

…and…

…

Greg?

…

No.

…

…and…

…

Molly?

...

No.

…

…and…

…

Mrs. Hudson?

…

No.

…

…and…

…

…and…

…

He felt Jim's presence with him acutely, and it spread dancing waves of explosive emotions throughout the detective's conflicted soul. Pulling it down with the criminal into his depths of darkness, their hands interwoven upon the trigger. And he felt it…Sherlock felt it the moment it happened. There and gone, but true nonetheless. Incontrovertible. Their wills were separate one moment…but the next…he felt something shift in the air…and their thoughts came in tune..…a sweet lullaby of sin…

And…

…and…

…and…

…

…

…

…

…

_**BANG! **_


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: Okay folks. Here's the requested Halloween chapter. Though it may not be rich in costumes or anything, it does incorporate it within. And since Andrew Scott's B-Day is Oct 21****st****, that is why I chose that particular date for Jim's same B-Day. Whew. This was fun to write, but it came out a bit pressured as I was pushed for time with the Halloween deadline. Any errors noted, please message me so I can correct. Thanks!**

…_**..**_

_**..…**_

_**BANG! **_

…_**..**_

Jim's eyes closed in ecstasy as he whispered into the taller man's hair, "Yesss…" His hands slowly loosened their grip and slid over the detective's, relinquishing their shared hold on the gun as a small stream of smoke spiraled up from the barrel. The woman in red lay splayed on the floor before them. Ribbons of crimson life ran forth from their vessel across the marble flooring, creating a map of murder. People fled in all directions, voices raised against the din of their mass exodus. Dining furniture was overturned and scattered across the open flooring. Somewhere, a wine bottle shattered and spilled its contents like so much further bloodshed. And there, amidst it all, stood the criminal and his detective. The crowd flowed around them as a river around bedrock.

Sherlock lowered the gun, and Jim's hand snaked back around his waist and relieved him of it, smoothly replacing it in its holster under his suit jacket. Looking around them to ensure no one was going to be stupid enough to approach anytime soon Jim straightened his cuffs and dusted himself off. The smaller man then came to the side of the detective, not to behold the murder victim, but to behold the effect said murder had rendered. And it was worth it. Everything. All of it…was worth this moment.

Sherlock stood still. Very still. His face was blank, smooth and almost alien in its casting. Not so unlike his general sociopathic projection, but different…somehow. Like an empty vessel, but for his eyes. Gray-green alit with something as yet unrecognized, and his thoughts blazed white hot behind them. He was poised with limbs loose, arms hanging as if forgotten by his sides, ignoring all that occurred about him. And when he did turn to Jim eventually, his eyes held no recognition of the enormity of his actions, and they simply sought out the criminal's familiar visage. He simply refocused on the consulting criminal, tilted his head, and asked a question.

"Are your parties always this boring?"

They were sweetest words Jim had yet heard issue forth from the lanky, wild haired man before him. With just those few syllables strung out together, Sherlock had confirmed what the criminal had been playing for all along. A distraction. He had searched his entire life for distractions…and here was the greatest of them all. Jim's gaze tracked to the body on the ground, but his mind was elsewhere. He closed his eyes and just breathed, reveling in the sheer sensation of his triumph. Sherlock Holmes…had just killed someone…in cold blood. And _he_ was the orchestrator of the fall. There was no challenge or thrill more delicious than what he felt at this very moment. No drug could compare to this final conquest. Sure, in actuality, neither of the men would ever know which of them had _initiated_ the trigger's release…but _both_ of them had finished it. And the sheer intensity of the moment threatened to drown James in its depths.

No time to linger over these thoughts, however, as someone would soon return with a mind for retaliation. Jim had already depressed an emergency alert on his mobile before even approaching the detective about initiating the events that had led to their current situation. A chopper should be there momentarily. The criminal smiled and held out his hand with a motion of his head that said 'let's go.' And he tried unsuccessfully to hide the thrill it gave him when there was so little hesitation this time from the detective. Those long musician's fingers slid home with his own, and they ambled to the north side of the structure. The rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades soon became apparent, and was drawing near, so they waited on the grass as it came down to take them away somewhere…anywhere. Jim's eyes found Sherlock's.

_Anywhere with you, my detective…_

They spent the night flying, James simply not wanting to return to the mansion just yet. They went through one night and into the next, changing to a jet at one point, before landing in a remote seeming town where they ended up buying out the entire floor of the only hotel. It was quaint, in an old fashioned sense, with tiny television sets, lace curtains, and not much else in the way of amenities. Sherlock had his own room off to the end of the long hallway, which he retired to almost as soon as they arrived. His mind was awash in things he did not understand and could not, as yet, process. The criminal mastermind chose a room more central in location while the few of his men who accompanied them spread out amongst the others.

The fact that the environment was unfamiliar wasn't what kept him awake so long after lying down, but it didn't help either. In fact, _everything_ felt unfamiliar, new, raw. He was overloaded with data. It made him feel lost and adrift. And it surprised him to no end that Jim had left him alone since they had boarded the first helicopter. After the emotional uprising he felt when they had locked eyes after the party, he had been certain that the other man would finally choose this time to press his suit. And Sherlock was unsure of whether or not he would have offered any resistance at all. But as of yet…nothing. Although he _had_ noticed once when he woke during the early morning hours that Jim had entered his room. Nothing nefarious. The criminal was simply perched on the edge of his bed, looking out into the darkness of the small space. Perhaps the man was lost within his own mind as the detective was sometimes wont to do himself? At any length, it didn't worry him, and he returned to sleep quickly only to wake in the morning to an empty suite.

When he awoke, it was on the dawn of Jim's birthday, October 21st, though Sherlock made sure not to make mention of the fact, given how adamantly the other man had shown his hatred of the event. They were to return to the mansion later, he had learned over the breakfast he didn't eat. And that was just as well. The timing couldn't be better for the surprise he had in store for the criminal, provided everything had been accomplished by that agent (Sean? Sebastian? Steve?) Moron person. If so, he was certain that Jim would be pleased. And for some reason, this was of great importance to the detective. He didn't stop to contemplate it, though, content to simply let things evolve as they would for the time being.

They had just boarded yet another private aircraft, the last one before home, when a dual text came through both of their mobile's. Jim looked puzzled as the alert chime went off, and even more so when he realized that Sherlock's had sounded, too. The detective, however, was already smiling, knowing that it had worked. His gift was complete. He beamed down at the small screen before flicking his eyes up to Jim who glanced suspiciously his way. Still, the criminal followed the directive in his agent's message, opening his laptop so as to view an attachment on the larger screen.

Sherlock's stare at Jim was as intense as a wildfire bearing down on a sapling, explosive and heated. The criminal's eyes were neutral as he brought up the message with its attachment, noting it was a video feed. Curious. He clicked play, leaning back to watch….and then sat forward again quickly as it began. Sherlock _knew_ when Jim understood. Those brown eyes widened in shock…and then shone with an inner pleasure that the detective fancied only _he_ ever got to witness. And when those deceitfully honest eyes left the video feed, they locked on the taller man as the criminal set aside the laptop and quickly crossed the distance between them. The aircraft was about to pull out, but Jim came on anyway, coming to a stop in front of Sherlock.

He stood there for a moment, as if deciding, then placed one knee on the space between the detective and the arm of the seat. Next he leaned down and put one hand on the seat back while the other snaked around behind Sherlock's head, fingers twining into the dark curls. Jim's face came level with the other man's, and cerulean met doe in an amplified silence that bled into nothingness when he finally spoke.

"You did this?" Jim whispered, unable to be heard over the engine, but Sherlock read lips well enough.

"Yes," he answered simply, having his lips read in turn.

"For me? For…my birthday?" Again, a nod from the detective with his verbal, yet nonverbal, reply in confirmation.

And then suddenly Jim was no longer there in front of him, but had retreated quickly back to his seat. The laptop returned to his knees, and Sherlock watched with an attention bordering on obsession as the other man played and replayed the video feed of what Sherlock felt was an entirely appropriate gift, one that wouldn't lead to his imminent torture or disfigurement. Jim's smile, true and unfiltered, made the criminal look so much younger, so beguilingly innocent. And the detective took that image and placed it deep within his Mind Palace in a special place reserved for memories that had the power to shatter his heart.

They flew on, back toward London, neither saying a word to the other for the rest of the trip. But their eyes stole glances at each other, taking turns to pretend they weren't. And amidst all of this, Jim continued to marvel at the most thoughtful gift he had received in many years. His laptop lay open across his knees while his mind was left open to feelings he didn't even realize had been slowly infiltrating his carefully constructed walls. Only the roar of the engine in the air permeated the space as the video feed was played out over and over across his monitor….

_A view from above London panned slowly to the east, the day as bright as it was going to get anytime soon. It seemed merely a calming panorama of central London. There was a small flash off to the left of the screen, drawing the eye, and then…. __**BOOM**__! Buildings all around the city's center began to explode, one after the other. Or at least, seemed to. Upon closer inspection, one could see that it was actually more just the roof or top floor of each building. But as the fireworks progressed, a pattern emerged through the debris strewn air. And the configuration of flame began to form a shape within a circle. The form spread slowly, eerily, but revealed the surprise at its end. The letter 'M' became discernible after another minute's time, leaving no doubt in any viewer's mind who this was made for. The symbol of the Moriarty clan burned fiercely into the British air, with smoke rising up that would later be reported visible for miles. And the burning symbol, like its name source, was ever changeable and fiercely destructive_.

Later that evening, once returned to the mansion and fitted back into what passed for normal in their lives for now, Jim found himself drifting towards the detective's location. A plan had formed in his brain that begged completion. And it required the complicity of the consulting detective in order to be accomplished. He found the other man bent slightly over at one of the many fireplaces throughout the older structure. He watched quietly as the taller man tossed something odd-shaped into the flames before breaking the silence.

"Sherlock? I wonder if you'd do something with me?" came Jim's almost polite tenor. The detective spun from where he had been surreptitiously burning things in the fireplace, hands behind his back like a child caught in the act. A few days had passed since their arrival back from the party, and Jim had practically been sequestered in one of his several offices. Because although he was internationally renowned and feared, he still needed to smooth over the 'event' they had caused. This had left the detective with far too much time on his hands in his own opinion. Hence, burning random things.

"Hmmm? What?"

"I was asking…" he began, but then looked hard to the fireplace. "Wha...? Is that my…?" Jim closed his eyes and shook his head, knowing he never should have left the other man alone for so long. This was his fault really. So he tried again. "I was asking if you would like to do something with me." The detective gazed back, interest piqued already because Jim never suggested boring activities.

"What did you have in mind?" came the taller man's reply. And Jim's eyes suddenly held something dark in response. Something wicked.

"Oh…..I - don't - know…" he bounced the syllables as he began to circle the detective, running a single finger along the length of one lean arm. "Maybe something for Halloween?"

"I don't particularly see the point in the holiday, but as you may observe, I am entrapped within a fair amount of stale and static activity here. So what is it?" The glint in the criminal's eyes darkened further as Jim ran the plan through his mind again. Yet another way of ridding Sherlock of his previous affiliations. But something inside of Jim gave an uncomfortable twinge at the thought of what he would do. It almost hurt to think things of this nature anymore when concerning the detective. He gave a mental shrug. No matter. This emotion was just another thing he needed to learn to deal with or burn out. And so his voice was low and soft as he finally replied.

"Let's seeeeeeeee…" he drawled out. "How about..…a magic trick?"

Decorations littered the windows and doorways of London. The wistful fall spirit of festivity dwelt amongst the populace as everyone's mind had turned to the evening's events, be it dressing in costume or simply getting home from work. Though Halloween had arrived with no more than the usual flare; unless you were a child, that is. In that case, magic was instilled in the very air… The lobby of NSY, however, held but a single decoration for the holiday: a small black and orange plastic tree with streamers. The rest of the police headquarters was bare, as were the hearts of many within.

DI Greg Lestrade was sitting at his desk running over a case file, one of hundreds, when Sgt Donovan came clattering in with a, "You've got to come see this, boss." And so he followed, wondering what in bloody hell could possibly move _her_ like this. She led him down the hallway and around a bend, until they turned sharply and entered one of the teleconference rooms that was still set up from a last conversation with Mycroft Holmes. Several others were there, but really, there weren't that many officers actually inside of the NSY building this day. Halloween could lead the public to commit various crimes that they normally would never chance, and so the police were out in force today in the field.

He was about to ask what she had dragged him down there for when he noticed the text on the screen hanging in the middle of the semi-circular table set up. At first, his mind deemed it a curiosity. But as he mulled it over, he realized his error, and who the author must be.

_**All good children, friends of William, **_

_**please do be kind enough to gather round for a story. **_

_**All names below are nonexempt **_

_**and must be present for the show to begin:**_

_**-G. Lestrade**_

_**-S. Donovan**_

_**-J. Watson**_

_**-M. Holmes**_

Greg grabbed Sally's forearm in a vice-like grip. It was him. Had to be. And this was it. Perhaps finally they would have news, or at least something further to go on afterwards. He spoke quickly, looking again at the list of names.

"Get John. John Watson. Here. Now." She nodded in understanding. And as she hurriedly ran for her car, he issued further orders and the room erupted into action. "Trace that sender. Bring out everything we've got from the computer investigative services. Everyone on alert until I give the order to stand down. This man is capable of anything, so be extra cautious with any contact made. And someone…get me Mycroft Holmes on the line…_Now_!"

And such was the sheer emotional charge behind his rolling orders that even Greg began to believe he had things under control. He laughed pitifully inside, though, desperate for something, _anything_, that would end all of this. They may already have a lead on Moriarty that would go down in just a few short days, but things always seemed to go differently where that bastard was involved. A little help would be welcome at this juncture.

He was so wrapped up in preparing for whatever might be coming their way that he barely registered when Mycroft's voice was directed into the earpiece he had acquired in the last fifteen minutes while waiting for the others.

"I'm here, Lestrade," came the cool tone often heard from the man behind the government. The DI began to hold his hand up for his people to allow Mycroft to access the same feed they were getting, but he was halted by the continued words in his ear. "No need, Detective Inspector. I am already accessing your side, and I am apprising the situation as we speak. What else are we waiting on?"

"John. He's the last one on the list; should be here any second. Sent someone to get 'im."

"Good. Now, have you any…" the voice was interrupted by another, just arrived.

"Greg? What's going on? Sally grabbed me up at the flat. No explanations, except that it might deal with Sherlock." The doctor crossed over to the DI, and Donovan strode briskly behind him, coming to a stop at one end of the angled tables. John was about to say more when his eyes caught the screen. They all waited as he read it, coming to his own conclusions quickly. "It's _him_, isn't it?" he asked quietly, feeling a sickness building slowly.

"We believe so, yeah." Then the overburdened DI grunted a halfhearted laugh. "Who else could it be at this point?"

"I don't believe this is the time to be joking, Lestrade," came the reprimand in his earpiece.

"Yeah, alright," Greg grimaced. And John noticed.

"Mycroft?" the doctor inquired. And the DI confirmed with a curt, and almost apologetic, jerk of his chin and a hand indicating the ear bud's presence. "Does he know…." John began, only to be interrupted by a voice he'd hoped to never hear again. The Irish lilt and dancing tone of Jim Moriarty drifted out of the surrounding audio system like a cloying fog of bloody death, as if sucking out any hope that may have ever dwelt within their hearts.

"_Hello_ everyone! I see you've all shown up as asked; with even a few extras to spare! I _would_ tell you not to bother tracing this, but….I know you do love to feel like you're doing _something_. Also, I didn't run audio back to myself because I didn't want to hear your pathetic protestations. This will be a one way conversation. So no talking while daddy puts on his play, alrighty?" A throaty chuckle followed this statement, and then the screen blacked out so that the text no longer hung on the display and they were left with just the sound of his voice echoing through the room. A small circle appeared and then wavered before flickering into life like an old fashioned television screen. And there on the display was a black and white video feed of the consulting criminal himself, complete with a set of devil's horns sticking out of his slicked back hair. Everyone in the room could feel the tension level crank up several degrees as the most sought after man in England continued to address them.

"Do you like my costume?" the criminal inquired, reaching up and flicking one of the plush horns. "I thought it quite…appropriate." A small giggle, and then he resumed speaking. "I just thought I'd save you all the trouble of looking for your dear old friend. What was his name?" An exaggerated pause followed with Jim holding a few fingers up to his chin in a thinking pose. "Real name William, but exchanged with, ah yes, Sherlock was it? Mhmmm…." Another bit of light laughter trailed after this. "Shall we find him? Yeeeessss…I think so…" The camera zoomed out so they could see a generic photo set up behind him like one would see for graduation pictures and such. The background was grayed out from the black and white recording, so there was no telling what color it may have been. Jim smiled as the camera angle adjusted somewhat lower, too, so that first the top of a wild head of dark curls was revealed, and then slowly down to the upper chest level before stopping.

Sherlock was most likely kneeling down on both knees; and he was gagged, with his arms angled downward in a fashion indicating that his hands were restrained behind him. He struggled somewhat weakly, leading the observers to the obvious conclusion of further drug induced compliance. His eyes were a bit reddened as well. Perhaps the drugs; perhaps misery. And John had eyes only for his friend as Moriarty began to pace slowly around the restrained man's form. The way he did it, with the predatory grace of a great cat put those in the room in state of sick anticipation. It was like watching animals on TV, just as the panther was about to capture its prey and rip the life from it. So, too, did Moriarty's eyes hold the coldness and steely concentration required of such ruthlessness.

Jim stopped just behind Sherlock's right shoulder and a fleeting smile stole across his lips as he placed a light hand upon that same area. He ran his fingers lovingly along there and around to the front of the detective's throat, where he flexed his fingers as if they had talons with which to rend the delicate flesh thereon. The man kneeling before him merely shivered, and Jim drew the hand higher, along the angular jaw and up into the nest of darkness. Suddenly, the gentleness ended as the criminal's fingers tightened and pulled back hard, exposing the long column of Sherlock's pale neck; at the same time, the smaller man bent forward and down, bringing his mouth within inches of that same area.

Jim's eyes flicked back up at the camera, and he tilted his head with a smirk. He closed his eyes and inhaled as if in rapture, then placed his lips chastely upon the detective's throat before returning to a standing position behind the other man, releasing his hair. And it seemed to John as though he spoke directly to him and no one else for a moment.

"Delicious, is he not? Too bad, really." And the criminal reached behind himself to pull a gun from his rear holster. Heart rates elevated, and the cold adrenaline of fear burst through the gathered witnesses as the barrel was then run along the same path that Jim's hand had just traveled minutes before. The prisoner trembled perhaps a bit more this time, jerking in small motions as if he were attempting to slip his bonds. But Jim paid it no mind, ever confident in his methods.

"Are you all wondering what I brought you together for? It's a special holiday surprise for an extra _special_ and _happy_ Halloween. You'll love it!" Jim laughed at his own idea of humor. "Are you ready?" He waved the gun haphazardly through the air, and everyone's eyes traced its path with horror. "It's a trick…" His tongue darted out across his lips, and he whispered, "…just a magic trick." The criminal stepped back from the weakly struggling man before himself, pulling the gun into line with the back of the detective's head. Greg's heart leaped and stuttered. John's did likewise, and a single tear of frustration and helplessness leaked down from his left eye. This had to be fake. It was wrong. Moriarty would never end his enemy, his equal, in this way. So simply… No….he couldn't. No…

Jim looked up from where he was pointing the gun and then dropped its aim to the floor as if something had just occurred to him. He slapped his forehead comically as if an errant thought had returned to him.

"How silly of me! I forgot about saying _goodbye_. You can't possibly end a fairy tale without a long goodbye." The watchers felt the stress of the moment still, but with the resurgence of hope that the criminal still had more of his "game" to play, which would give the detective more time. Time they desperately needed. Was this his game then after all, just to torment them? If so, it had worked well and thoroughly. But as long as he chose to play with their emotions, Sherlock still had time. Time they could use to rescue him. They all awaited what new riddle Moriarty might throw their way, what piece of the puzzle they would have to scramble after next.

But it never came….

The gun raised back up, level with a kill shot to the heart from behind. Jim's smile had never been grander as he spoke again.

"Then again…."

He cocked the gun…

"I am…"

…and adjusted the angle of the barrel while finishing darkly…

"…_so_ changeable."

He fired into Sherlock's body.

The detective pitched forward, falling to the floor like so much grain. It seemed to happen over and over again in John's mind as the doctor continued watching the scene unfold. In front of him, reality. In his mind, nightmares. Eyes the color of the most beautiful of oceans had gone blank with the sudden concussion of sound. The long and lean body had jerked forward and toppled. And above it all stood Jim Moriarty with a grand expression of triumph on his face, gun smoking, and the devil's horns lending him an even further air of insanity.

Silence drowned the room. None moved, none spoke, and some could barely breathe as they watched the criminal raise the gun to his expensive suit and wipe it down his side a couple times. Greg suddenly sat hard into a chair, and John almost followed suit but would have found the floor instead. He barely managed to remain standing as his eyes refused to leave the screen…the last place he had seen his friend alive and well. Mycroft's voice was silent in the earpiece, no doubt he had muted it anyway so as to prevent sound from escaping to Greg at this time. Who knew what the British Government would feel at the murder of his sibling?

John was the first to begin to recover his wits, feeling a boundless, endless, rage building from within himself as his heart dug through the ashes of its existence. He would kill this man on the display. No question. He would do it bare handed, with firearms, or with any number of various instruments. He did not care. It was simple. Moriarty would die. And John Watson knew it would be the only death he would ever cause that he would actually feel pleasure at completing. The thought of it brought him to near clear-headedness as he ran through many long and drawn out methods of torture he had been a student of in special forces. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. Fists tightened into deadly weapons, and knuckles stood white as snowcapped mountains as he radiated hatred at the screen, knowing Moriarty was observing each of them in turn. _Let him see, then. Let him see who's coming for him,_ John thought.

And amidst the storm of desperate emotions and shattered hopes came a sound that rang out discordant with the atmosphere. It started out low, and then slowly grew. The beginning being a sound so deep and low that perhaps human ears couldn't have picked up on it anyway.

It was laughter, genuine and true. And it flowed through the audio system of the room, mocking those who remained in their shock of grief. But Moriarty was not laughing. He was only stood still with his grin in place and the gun in hand, as if posed for some strange criminal magazine cover. The smirk, however, deepened as the next sound, that of speech, flew like a whirlwind through the room, resurrecting hearts and hope alike in a painful cacophony of emotion.

Baritone and smooth, the voice of Sherlock Holmes rang out, off camera.

"Damn!" Followed by a cough. "You didn't warn me how much those _hurt_, Jim!" And Moriarty merely shrugged before answering back.

"Mmm… You didn't ask. But how would you have _figured_ rubber bullets would feel?"

"Sarcasm is wonderful when not directed at yourself, is it?" And the detective's form rose shakily from the ground and into view of the camera once again. He stolidly began to march off of the set, with the last thing they could hear from him being spoken mainly to himself and trailing off as he passed out of range of the microphones. "Though this _will_ create interesting patterns of ecchymosis, so it's not been a total loss. I might even….."

Jim smiled disarmingly at the camera and spread his arms wide as if to say, What are you gonna do with him? Then he addressed them once more.

"Well. That. Was. Fun! Don't you think?" He plucked his horns from his hair and flicked them to the ground, then spun round and tore down the posterboard backdrop behind himself. "I always try to clean up after myself at least a bit. Don't want to be a poor house guest. And I am _so_ sorry to have to leave now in such a hurry, but…business calls!"

When the posterboard backdrop came down, the room was stunned speechless at the location it revealed. It was a lobby. _Their_ lobby. _The_ lobby. Of New Scotland Yard. And just as this realization dawned on them, while the camera feed cut off with Jim walking away toward the doors, the siren call of the building's lock-down system began to sound…and complete police quarantine was initiated. Doors all over the building locked, bars came down and across at various intervals within the police precinct. And all was chaos within the conference room as the monitor flickered once. Twice. Then the display lit once more with a cheery message:

_Happy Halloween! –S &amp; M_


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: Sorry if this one feels forced in a place or two. Kind of running on low/no sleep and loads of crazy lifebusiness. Still, I hope it gets some points across in these characters' development.**

Jim attacked hard and fast, viciously flipping the two of them over on the ground, taking away the other's advantage of height and weight. His street fighting methods as a child had been developed into an art form over the years; and for such a diminutive man, Jim contained much in the way of wiry strength. Grabbing a fistful of dark curls, he rammed the taller man's head downwards once, twice. He panted hard after, feeling the fight (and consciousness) leaving the detective. Why then wasn't his own adrenaline ebbing? The battle was over….right? A tremor ran down his spine at the suggestion of a cessation to the violence. No... Something pushed him further, like an endless hunger never satiated. He had to be sure the threat was ended…permanently.

And Jim felt he watched from outside of himself as his hands reacted of their own volition to these invading thoughts of paranoia. Fingers tightened their grip, pulled back, and slammed Sherlock's head into the hard tile one last time, blood already present from earlier in their fight smearing under the criminal's touch. At this final impact, though, the detective's skull made a sickening noise as it connected, somewhere between the breaking of a branch and a melon being dropped from the table. There was only that sound…nothing else, echoing for a moment in the smaller man's mind. Then suddenly, _everything_ stilled…even, he felt, his own heart. The struggle they had been enduring was voided, with the criminal emerging as the clear victor. He experienced an almost nauseating elation at this. Yes. He was happy! Or was he? Wasn't he? No. Yes. What? Blinking, he turned his gaze to the face of his conquered enemy, feeling disoriented of a sudden.

The mysteriously color-shifting eyes were frozen, half lidded, as if waking from a dream…a nightmare. The light and spark of intelligence was blank behind them. Sherlock's pale face lay fixed and motionless, though not unlike many trademark looks the detective was well known for in his days as a consultant. But this time, that expression wasn't flooded with his underlying layer of frightening intensity and bordering-on-omnipotent awareness. It held, instead, a terminus of life, an end. The last vestiges of who he was bled away in a faltering storm of electrical discharges once contained in fast-fading neuronal bundles. Jim imagined he could see it, feel it, as he leaned back, every atom of his being recoiling in horror as the cold realization broke over him. His hands flew back to himself, unable to continue their contact with the detective's body, to feel the confirmation of the life that had fled.

Because of _him_.

With one hand clutched to the front of his own shirt, the other raised up sluggishly to his face in shock. He started at a lukewarm, wet substance that slid against his cheek. And he stared in surprise at his palm and its dark, liquid coating… A slow, broiling sickness swept through him and found a home in his center.

Blood. Sherlock's…. Life. Sherlock's…. No. His heart forced yet more adrenaline through his body, burning everywhere it made contact, setting his limbs on fire with the horrible knowledge. Mental clarity and control were progressively regained as he fought the reality he was presented with….. Dead. He was dead. And the world would follow_. _There would be nothing left for him in this realm of decaying flesh. His mind sought rationality in the declarations, as if it could change the truth through sheer determination, but instead it slipped off and further down into insanity.

And. He. Couldn't. Breathe.

No. No. Not real. No. False. Untrue. _Lies_. No, No, No, No No No No No No NO NO NO NO! _Never_!

Jim woke with a start, thrashing about in his sweat soaked covers until his eyes regained the clarity of the waking world. Another dream, same topic. His stomach still heaved, but no vomit resulted from it. _Unlike the other nights_. He pulled himself up onto the side of his bed, dangling his legs down and observing how shaky his movements were. How weak. How pathetic. He couldn't keep doing this. He felt blank, void…empty. Except for one thing. A thing that filled almost every waking moment…and apparently un-waking ones, too. But that one thing terrified him more than any other thing had. He shook his head in denial.

No. He would never allow anyone else that kind of power over him. These dreams were just a product of his brother's recent meddling in his life, dredging up memories long suppressed, long escaped. Bringing out the animal he once was…and still could be... But he would be fine. Though these nightmares were stronger than ones in previous years…he would get past it, like always. He didn't _need_ _anyone_. And yet…

His feet hit the floor, and he wrapped a dressing gown around his shoulders as he passed the wardrobe and fled the room. He pretended no knowledge of where his steps would take him, treading the hallway in slow and measured paces, though he never could quite pull off lying to himself. The darkened passage seemed to be leading him further into oblivion as he approached his destination, though it thankfully didn't take long before he passed through the door of Sherlock's room. The detective's suite had been moved closer to his own recently. He had deemed this necessary. For closer monitoring. Nothing else. Right…

It was strange, feeling this dependent on something (someone) for peace of mind. His steps brought him to the foot of the bed, and he felt the calm already settling over himself; the other man's presence invaded his blood like a sedative for his soul. His gaze pulled in the image of the detective as Jim stood uncertainly, with Sherlock sprawled out like a starfish on the sand. It seemed the dreamer had only made a half-hearted attempt at buttoning his pajama top, too. And one could almost think those limbs had been artfully placed, purposefully flung about to capture poses to their best aesthetic effect….

The criminal blinked. He was losing track, he knew, and so Jim refocused and thought, hard. He considered _everything_, all of the events that had combined in so imperfectly perfect a way so as to lead up to this moment in his life. This choice. And he sat down on the edge of the bed with the weight of his thoughts. All the games, the lies, the puzzles, the challenges, his endless anger at not having a single person to understand him, to distract him from the mundane, the _ordinary_, the…well, just life in general.

Suicide had been a fleeting moment of weakness in the past. Toying with his own life had only held his interest for all of a few days. He had soon realized that it would only be worth it if those left behind of the event were affected adversely. Because what is suicide but a poor spirit's last attempt at discovering its worth to others? And really…..who was there to weep for Jim Moriarty? Who would actually feel his absence as a hole in their world? He almost sighed, but that wouldn't have been very characteristic of him, would it? Consulting criminal, crime lord of the civilized aspects of society, the name no one spoke...sighing over mixed emotions? Having second thoughts? It didn't bear consideration... Then a flicker of memory burned in his eyes momentarily. He _did_ know one person who would be affected, but they wouldn't understand the repercussions until much later in their life. And then he really did sigh. Completely on accident. More of a yawn really….

His hand wandered back behind himself as he continued thinking, sliding along the expensive cottons until it encountered the resistance of a certain previously mentioned, sprawled form. And his thoughts slowed. He smiled. It felt good. Actually, it felt great. After so many years of unceasing frustration, he had finally found a match for his own brand of intelligence. It gave him a sense of freedom and giddiness that threatened to escape in the form of a somewhat maniacal laugh. So he bit his lip. And he hid it. Always hidden…

For so long, he had held on to, and tried out, many different personas, attitudes…selves, really. It was hard to distinguish any longer which was false…and which was truth. His life itself was steeped in lies of the blackest kind, and with each passing year the depth of his darkness seemed to extend further into an eternity he was unsure he ever wished to meet. It was disconcerting, not knowing which you was _you_. How can a person not even know himself at all? And yet…he didn't. Some aspects of his characters seemed to repeat, and so he was almost certain that those things, such as his penchant for unpredictability, were part of the "real" Jim. And killing…yes, that was a part of him, too. Integral. But many facets eluded him or only _seemed_ possible. How could one ever be certain when every day involved another front, another act?

_Unless the act ended_….

He glanced over his shoulder at what had eventually become his reason for continuing. Not in the romantic sense; of course not. He sneered and turned to face straight ahead once more. _At least, not in the beginning_….. Damn. Even his own thought patterns seemed to turn on him nowadays. Always returning to one topic. One very alive and intriguing, and maybe even snoring, topic. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. What price? What price this? For it would end. And horribly. He knew. He remembered what happened the last time… _Seraena_…. And he closed his eyes, bending forward a bit as if to curl into himself. Things like that, like happiness, like dreams, were not meant for those such as he. Were _never_ to be his. Everything he touched, died. Withered into ashes that could no longer sustain their original purpose. He couldn't let that happen again. But how….?

_Oh_!

Brown eyes, black in the darkened bedroom, snapped wide. And his head lifted a bit. Yes. It came to him then, unfolding before him as a cosmic statement of truth, a manifesto of his destiny. _Perfect_. His mind began to form plans and counterplans more quickly than most could recite their own names.

No one could know. Well…only one. A confidante to help with the last details; to be sure the job was finished. Yes… His fingers gripped the sheets tightly. Everything would be alright after he was…..gone. Never again would the evil within himself gain the ground needed to harm what he cared most for. _Never_. Everything would be safe. Sherlock would be safe. …..and Sherlock was everything now, wasn't he?

A fit of lightning shot through Jim's chest at this mental declaration. The closest he had come yet to consciously admitting…something…_something_. He felt his breath hitch for just a second in fear… But then he let it escape, and his face set into the look of calm acceptance of one's fate. The kind of peace that only comes over those who have seen what their end will be, and are ready for it. And he was. He knew it. And it hurt…oh, it hurt.

He would never see _so many_ things if he did this, if he pulled it off. But Sherlock would be safe from him. Right? Surely _after_….there would be no need for concern? There were others who would watch over the detective….others. Jim wouldn't be around to oversee it, though, and so he'd just have to hope that he planned everything perfectly. And he would. He was Jim Fecking Moriarty. He gripped the sheets tighter still. When he set his mind to _anything_, Jim _Fecking_ Moriarty would never… "Ooooomph!"

He fell backwards into the bed as a pair of long arms wrapped around his waist and tumbled him down ungracefully. He landed in an awkward heap across the detective's chest, looking up quickly to the other man's face in consternation. Sherlock merely looked on blearily and tugged sideways as he rolled over more towards Jim and brought the criminal into what had to be the most intimate embrace the smaller man had ever encountered in his abused life. In fact, if he'd had time to consider it, the shorter man might have realized that he couldn't remember the last time he'd ever actually been _held_. Not like this. Seraena had loved him, but here and now he felt…safe.

He was brought firmly, yet gently, up against a pale chest, lean arms gripping around Jim's shoulders and waist. He could hear the other man's heart beat, and it sounded out the sweetest lullaby that his black and jaded soul had never thought to find. And something deep in his mind recoiled and readied for the strike…only to be quickly subdued by the more dominant aspect of himself at this moment, his heart. He closed his eyes. He didn't deserve this, no. But he would enjoy it while he still could. Once he had all in place, he would monitor for the tell-tale shift in himself. And then….when he eventually felt the darkness begin to build….he would act. And in acting…save…_everything_.

It was early when Jim woke after only a few hours, still wrapped tightly in an embrace he would have found amusing if he hadn't had to piss so damnably bad right then. After much internal debate, he stealthily disengaged the long limbs from his person and escaped to perform what morning ablutions were deemed necessary by his stressed and strangely tired body. It felt as if he had finally begun to rest after years' worth of none, but had been woken much too early from his slumber. He thought briefly of returning and seeing if he could replace himself within that embrace, but… No. He mustn't do this to himself. Stop. Just stop. Take, but don't initiate. Right. Well. So then.

He returned to his own room and changed into an outfit that any of Scotland Yard would have found amusing. Contrary to popular belief, consulting criminals _did_ actually exercise just like normal people. And Jim preferred running, as it reminded him of the good times he and his only childhood friend had. Not a bad idea for a crook to be able to run in any event, he had often thought. And so, clad in trainers, loose jogging pants, and an I (heart) NY t-shirt, he headed to grab his Ipod in a nearby living area, intent on getting the miles in prior to the detective waking and finding him gone.

But when he entered the room, time slowed for him, and he stopped. Cold. Furniture was all in place, pristine and eclectic. Just as the previous owner's had it set up when he had stepped in. Yes, everything was in the same positioning, but there was a presence here he hadn't expected to confront for at least another few weeks. Damn. He was about to speak when he found himself shoved back and into the wall, held there by a hand pressed hard into his sternum. The breath blew out of him, and his head knocked a small dent in the wall, eyes closing as stars burst through them. He took a second to regain his senses after the blow. And when vision returned and eyelids opened, dark brown bored like acid through the returned gaze of his only living male relative. And he thought he would rather have that number be subtracted by one.

It appeared that James the Younger had finally learned how to utilize a bit of his older brother's unpredictability. And damn it all if he wasn't smirking like he knew it. The brutish man held his sibling there, saying nothing for long seconds, no doubt just giving Jim time to understand his situation and be suitably cowed. The palm on the smaller man's chest became a single finger after a bit, symbolizing how little effort it took for the older brother to be beaten. The often lethal stare of Jim Moriarty held no potency here, else the world would be less one redhead.

The peace ended, as it always did when they met, with violence, as James' backhand caught Jim across the jaw. The hand then settled around the shorter man's neck, tight and threatening, pressing him back against the wall once more. The criminal had tried to throw up a defense of some sort, but though he had long since mastered his own form of street fighting, he had not been _living_ the street life like his younger brother did every day. Nothing he attempted, no trick or twist or turn could free him of his attacker's grasp. And the fingers closed ever tighter over his airway, bringing on an edge of darkness to Jim's vision. Then, with a final thud of a shove, James released his older brother and walked away to stand by a desk across the way, smirk remaining intact.

"Can't use that smart ol' brain o' yours when I be chokin' its oxygen off, can yeh? See now? What good is all that intelligence when all I 'ad ta do was wrap my hand 'round that scrawny neck?" James teased as he turned back to face his brother.

Jim reset himself, mentally and physically, while his resumed tread brought him to the opposite end of the writing desk, cautiously keeping an object between them. Control was needed. Now. The elder Moriarty shook inside, from rage and baseless fear at once. The feelings resulting from his past trauma were steadily building and thieving his body's conscious reactions even as he fought to keep his outer appearance placid. PTSD reactions were uncontrollable, and his were unfortunately not geared toward violence when it came to his sibling. They served more to cripple him. And though he knew and recognized it, the knowing didn't make the terror any less, nor his body's reactions to it; it just made him more aware, if anything. _Humiliating_.

James tilted his slightly redder head to the side as he watched, as if knowing full well the affect he had on Jim and loving every second of it. The smaller man had halted at the end of the desk farthest from James before speaking. His singular goal was to get this man to leave. Leave now. Sherlock was just down the hall, and Jim had no desire to see what the effects would be if the detective and his brother were to ever meet. He felt James would not kill _him_ yet, but Sherlock…Jim felt something twist inside himself. He ignored it and steadied his voice, bringing in some of his classic snobbery to the tone and pacing.

"James…. I'd say I was pleased…but, really, _why_?" False bravado would have to serve here for now until Jim could regain control over the screaming images of pain and torment that crawled from the recesses of his mind. He stood in the presence of the only person with the power to hurt him without even trying. His brother smiled back at him, wasting no time in replying with his stronger accent, rough to Jim's cultured tones.

"Aw, Jimmy. You can 'urt a person's feelin's with tha' talk. No, I think a more proper greetin' is…"

"_What_. Do. You. _Want_?" Jim grated out from between gritted teeth. He wanted this man gone. Now. But the annoyed interruption seemed to only please his more physically blessed brother, as if it had confirmed the criminal's insecurity.

"Ha! Same as I've ever wanted, Jimmy…. _You_." And Jim felt a sickness break over his head at those words. Trigger words for his PTSD. He had heard ones just like them time and again as his brother had raped him with various objects when they were younger. Whatever had been at hand really; hammer handles, sticks, gun barrels….just never with James' _actual_ body. The larger sibling had always said Jim was too dirty/skinny/worthless/useless to actually fuck with his cock. He left that to their mother's customers and the other boys in the ghetto, too feral and cruel to show any mercy.

Bile rose in the back of the criminal's throat as he watched his brother watch _him, _watch his reactions… Strength, show it. _Must get rid of him! Quickly. Before Sherlock_… He didn't finish that line of thought, just started talking, thinking ahead of his words instead. He was smarter than his brother. Vastly. Surely he could come through this with no foul outcomes? His stomach gave the twinge again. And again, he ignored it.

"I'm not coming with you. Not now. Not _ever_. In fact, I've _suffered_ you to live for all these years, James, because you've never truly been a bother to me. Don't make me regret it and have to change the directives I've given my agents." Yes, that was good. More of the bravado, some of it not false, but he was still unable to progress farther physically. The wounds to his psyche were just too deep, and his body remained a prisoner to its own fear. The other man stared at Jim for a long moment, as if weighing this strange specimen before him.

"Oho, gone and tried ta grow yerself a pair, eh? Interesting. Or wait…somethin' else? Ah…." The younger sibling made as if gazing around to look for something. As evil a smile as had ever existed played across his lips after his slow scan. "E's 'ere…isn't 'e? That detective?" He stretched his arms and settled his shoulders as if readying for a fight. "Well then, why not 'ave him come out an play? E's got ta be a more worthy fuck than you ever were," the large man laughed, and Jim spoke up.

"Sherlock Holmes' whereabouts are hardly _your_ concern, and…."

Another voiced interrupted his statement suddenly.

"_And_…he's here now, so no concern at all," Sherlock's words flowed out like black silk as he entered and crossed unconcernedly toward James' position. The detective still had his pajamas on, but his height and commanding presence were remained potent enough to redirect the younger Moriarty's attention. Sherlock's eyes scanned all around as he entered, taking in locations of various instruments that could be used in defense or offense. An umbrella behind the door, scissors on the desk, scattered pens, and the chair itself. Not much in the way of choices, but surprise could often help along a normally ineffective weapon. Better to be prepared and aware, as this man was clearly not welcome here.

The large redhead's eyes had raked the newcomer with hungry interest. And Sherlock deduced much from the few seconds of their dual scrutiny. Familiar, his features were… Ah. This had to be…the mystery sibling that the detective had discovered through he and Jim's game of deductions weeks ago. Hmmm. He went further into his examination. Younger sibling…though the way the man interacted would have implied otherwise. Dedicated to his own cause. Hard core, thug, gangster, whatever it was they were known as in Ireland. Dangerous, too. And…the detective's eyes flicked to Jim, taking in the positioning, expression, body language, and...

He almost startled himself into tripping at what he found there. Psychological trauma so profound…..abuse…physical, mental, of the worst and most degrading sort…. Jim stood there…_Jim Moriarty_, king of crime in any known part of the world, _stood there_ with a fine tremor running his frame ragged, trying so hard to contain it. Trying so hard not to show the weakness that this mental instability induced in him. The criminal's hair stood at odd angles. There was small impression in the wall to one side. Redness over trachea and hyoid region. The detective's mind filled in and replayed the actions that had occurred prior to his entrance. And Sherlock swallowed. Anger had now replaced his idle curiosity at this stranger's presence.

Here before him stood the cause for Jim's anguish. The source. The well of evil that had been drawn from in the criminal's youth. Almost every sadistic thing the criminal did in his guise, his armor, as Jim Moriarty could be circled back to this one man. The deep sorrow, madness, anger, and hurt that Sherlock had caught hints of during their weeks together were a result of _him_. His blood boiled and evaporated, reforming into an acid waste. It scorched his insides with a kind of rage he had rarely known before. His muscles felt caught in the worst sort of tetany. Yet on the outside, in the few seconds that had flitted by during his evaluations, the wild-haired man seemed quite unconcerned and calm. _Yes. Calm, I am calm. And no threat, surely. Focus on that…misdirection, _Sherlock thought to himself as he came to a halt standing just off to James' left side, with the writing desk at the detective's right hip.

Jim looked on, a terror of cold glass shards inside him now that what he wanted more than anything to protect had entered and all but placed itself on a table for his disgusting mess of a brother. Anger and fear warred with one another, neither able to gain dominance. So he was only able to observe, fearing that anything he said would only to serve to make the situation worse. The more concern he showed, the more his brother would learn… But, no matter what, he needed Sherlock safe. Jim's heart jumped as the other two men began to converse, with James leaning a bit toward the detective as if in confidence.

"I monitor 'is communications when I can, ya know. 'E talks about you all the time. Tellin' people to leave you alone, coverin' your whereabouts and whatnot. It's sweet. 'E's even got in several arguments with that sniper o' 'is over you." James reached out a hand and ran a finger down the sleeve of Sherlock's top. "Says you're on the side o' the angels, 'e does. Heh. Find that hilarious. _Him_? Hangin' round wit' angels?" The redhead spat upon the ground between them. "Nothin'. That's what 'e is. All o' this?" He waved his hands around, indicating the large estate and everything Jim's power and empire symbolized. "This is mine. 'E can't 'andle it no more. Dirt like 'im is always reaching for things they shouldn' 'ave."

Sherlock chuckled lightly at the big man's words, his arms hanging loosely at his sides while he kept his gaze straight ahead at the wall behind James, still maintaining his adjacent position to the man's left. The other's eyes narrowed, as if seeking insult or threat from the soft laughter. But the detective spoke finally, breaking the other's visual interrogation.

"_Really_?" Sherlock admonished Jim with a glance over his shoulder before returning his eyes to the wall again, but speaking now to James. "Odd. He lies about many things, but I should have thought he would inform you that when it comes to Heaven…angels…and all things good….." The detective broke into a flurry of motion while speaking, his right hand shooting out to the desk, grasping the scissors, his legs pivoting to bring him circling around to his right in a complete 180. The hand holding the scissors came up, and the wielding limb became firm and rigid, his half-spin ending with a wet _kthuk_ as his backwards stab came in contact with its intended target, and he finished his sentence.

"…that I am _anything_ but." No answer followed, because none was needed. His point had been made in blood. The detective spared a glance to the side at his own violent handiwork, adding, "Also…you talk too much."

Jim stared in horrified and glorious amazement at Sherlock, who still held the scissors securely through the throat of the only person in the world to have ever had any power over the criminal. The eyes of the last remaining Moriarty male traced the detective's form as the taller man's hand finally came down, blood drops pattering to the floor. James the younger's body immediately crashed sideways to the ground, making all of the sorts of gurgling and wet popping sounds one could ever wish to hear emerge from a mortal enemy.

The criminal's thoughts and gaze considered his fallen brother's form. Yes, James had been the only one with unquestioned power over him, that could alter his actions, change his course. Dead now. Gone forever. He breathed out, eyes closing for a second before finding a new focus. Because Jim couldn't help to feel, as he continued observed the predatory poetry of Sherlock's movements, that there was now someone else who held the same position, albeit through a different means.

And as he drank in the sight of his brother's bleeding, mutilated form, Jim found that he didn't really mind all that much. His chest felt light, yet full of lead, too. Strange. But he smiled through it and walked to stand before the other man whose piercing and fiery eyes held his own with an equal interest and intensity. Nothing was said between them as of yet, as if they were dealing with language on a different level. The man, frustratingly complex and confounding, who stood before Jim…had now purposefully killed someone of his own volition. With no prompting or encouragement. Certainly, they had both been in danger, but the need for lethal force was…unfounded. On the detective's side at least. And so…..Sherlock had killed for him. No dubious help with the trigger this time… He had, in fact, eliminated the only credible threat in Jim's life.

The criminal stepped into Sherlock's personal space, reaching up to grasp the front of the taller man's shirt and pull him down a bit. The blaze of heat behind Jim's deep brown irises was felt all the way through the detective's soul as they stood there, almost nose to nose, breathing the same air. Jim had stopped smiling just before grasping his shirt, and now stared as if in wonder up at him. But the oft jesting smile was back suddenly, and the criminal released the fabric, smoothing his hand over the taller man's chest a few times before backing away.

Jim then looked at the ground momentarily before raising his eyes once more to meet those of gray-blue focused on himself. He also straightened his fairly ridiculous (on him at least) shirt, and turned to gesture to the doorway.

"Shall we?" Jim inquired as if nothing untoward was bleeding into the carpet at his feet. "I was about to go for a run, and I was…interrupted." _Ignore the problem. That's it. Because my brother is one no longer_. He took a step in the direction of their exit, but then stopped once more and spun, hand to chin as if thinking. "Although, I can think of several more _interesting_ ways to elevate my heart rate…" His eyes passed over the detective's lightly clad form with this statement. Sherlock, however, stared on, uncomprehending. Finally, Jim rolled his eyes. _Too soon? No matter. Later, maybe._ He turned back and had the taller man trailing behind him in seconds. "Hmmm, well, anyway. Later, we neeeeeed to go over our parts for next week. Won't do to have the star players unfamiliar with their lines. Bad theater, that."

Jim kept on for a bit about the British Museum or some such thing. Sherlock wasn't sure, as he was running on autopilot behind the criminal. The detective would have seemed calm and placid to any onlookers witnessing the aftermath of James' violent death. But inside, he was seething with confusion, and…a bad feeling? A premonition? Something… Because as his weapon of choice had collided with the vulnerable throat of the younger Moriarty, he had heard something. A voice? But not really, because it had originated from inside his own head. Did words inside one's own head qualify as being "voices?" And if so, what….

_No. Focus_. The "voice" had said his name. But it was different than just any commonplace utterance of his name. "Sherlock" being yelled across a crowded room would certainly register in his attention, perhaps even have him turning to look for the source. But this, _this_ voice…..he knew instinctively he would turn the world over in searching for _its_ source. So strange. He couldn't identify anyone that it was attached to, though the voice itself, tone and enunciation, registered as being deeply connected with his own identity. Undeniable. Unbreakable. It had been male, that much he was sure of. And yet, there were so very few people consistently in his life… So he began to easily tick them off one by one, and _still_ could find no owner. It wouldn't have bothered or intrigued him so much, perhaps, under different circumstances. But it, that voice, that connection to his soul, was wounded by his actions this day. Was scared. He knew it, _felt_ it. And could do nothing about it but follow after a crime lord with an unhealthy idea of relationships.


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: First, much love to Revella, who keeps me somewhat sane in my quest to type this despite feedback. Well, that's not entirely true. I do have some folks who review besides her, and I THANK YOU profusely. *kisses* So this chp will hopefully give some laughs and lighten things a bit after all the angsty pants crap I've dragged y'all through. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE writing angst and emotional boohoo shit. But every now and then….I need to bring back the light hilarity that the show also has to it. And so, here ya go, my pretties….**

Sherlock watched as Jim made another lap around the great lawn before the main part of the estate. The other man's endurance was admirable, though the detective himself was not much of one for extended periods of activity just for the sake of besting a previous time or simply for the need of _doing_ something. However, he did find that he could enjoy watching the criminal just for the sake of _that_: watching. Heh. Sometimes he surprised himself with how mundane he could be. But then, his subject was fairly unguarded during these times, so it was easier to study him.

This had become their morning routine over the last week since the…incident…with the criminal's brother. Jim ran, Sherlock watched. And then they played. Well, perhaps _played_ wasn't quite the word one should use when describing the various activities that two geniuses could concoct between themselves, one a criminal mastermind and the other an inquisitive detective. Neither with very strong moral principles. Though, for some reason, Sherlock hadn't anticipated such camaraderie as they now seemed to share between them.

The detective was out of his depth in interpreting any response from the other man since the aftermath of James' killing. Certainly, he had deduced that the younger Moriarty had been the source of much of the trauma Jim had endured in his childhood, so he hadn't exactly expected grieving. Perhaps anger, joy, regret…_something_. But no. Nothing. The criminal carried on with no further comment on the matter than that his men had taken care of the body. Was there to be a retaliation from the younger sibling's own network? Jim had only smiled when he had been asked that, saying not to worry about such trivial problems; they had better things to do. Sherlock sighed. It was just so hard to gauge reactions in the morally vacillating madman.

Perhaps Jim seemed more…open? Readable? Human…? Sherlock couldn't place it exactly, but he knew it involved him and him alone, because Jim responded in the same manner as before to his employees. Cold, methodically unpredictable, cruel… But for Sherlock…there was a new depth. A new connection. The criminal seemed to be spending more and more time around him, no longer cutting out in midday to go "take care of some business matters." Now, Jim conducted his phone calls and computer-based operations right in the detective's presence, inviting commentary and participation as often as not. He even seemed to be creating things for them to do together so as to amuse the easily-bored Holmes. And, as ever, many of the other man's actions still remained a mystery in regard to his motives.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he thought over their, ahem, activities, in the past week. Those days were now fast becoming some of the most memorable in his life. It felt almost…like friendship. _Close_ friendship. Something he had never experienced before. And he supposed they _were_…friends. Weren't they? Friends protected each other, looked out for one another, killed for one another, slept in the same bed with each other… Wait. Wait a minute. Well… So perhaps _killing_ didn't exactly fit the quality measure here, he considered. Better to throw it out as a confounding variable. And the sleeping? That wasn't exactly, _strictly_, solely within the realm of friendship either. After all, he couldn't remember the last person he had slept in the same bed with. He thought on this a moment. It must have been when he was very young, and he left his room to creep into Mycroft's because he was afraid of some such odd thing or other. Back when he and his brother hadn't shared such a mutual dislike for being in each other's company.

Other than those very few instances, though, he could think of no other time when this had occurred. Yet there he had been, lying on the same mattress as Jim Moriarty. Night after night. And it wasn't as if they were _doing_ anything other than sleeping. Just, it had been happening ever since that night when it had finally been confirmed to him that Jim was, in fact, sneaking into his room at night to sit on the edge of his bed. Just sitting, nothing else. Even an emotional dunce such as himself could see that something was clearly wrong with the other man, though. And so, with his defenses depleted from being only half awake, he had pulled the criminal down into the covers with him. And they had continued with a similar scenario every night since.

Sherlock would go to his room alone, and then some small time later, Jim would enter and stand at the foot of the bed, hushed, as if afraid to ask for something. The detective would then hide a smile and flip up one edge of the coverlets, allowing possibly the most dangerous man in the world to slide underneath them beside him. Neither would speak then, a silent agreement between them to not break the strange spell shared here with something as tragically inadequate as words. And though each night began with them lying separately, the morning would find them entwined in various positions which would lead to an extension of the silent truce. Though whether it was in fear of what this might symbolize between them, or embarrassment in showing such vulnerability, neither was quite sure.

The detective shook the internal examination of his bedfellows from his head and tried in vain to refocus on his original musings. After all, this was a topic he had already pondered several times and still had no answer for. Most likely, none would be forthcoming anytime soon either. So yes, the past week had brought something new to light for him. For both of them, he corrected, as he watched Jim pass by once more. And the whatever-it-was only grew stronger with every passing day, every single shared encounter. He leaned back, sliding his hands over the grass he sat upon. It had all started off in fair innocence…

_7 days ago…_

Jim yawned and stretched luxuriously as he tromped down the long hall in the early morning light. Not much was intimidating about him this early in the morning. Sherlock hadn't been there when he had woken, but he was only slightly concerned as to what that could mean. He was usually the first to wake, with the detective being more cat-like, stealing all the covers as soon as he was the sole occupant of the mattress and cocooning himself in them. It was…he _would_ say "endearing," but really it was rather annoying. Especially if all you did was get up for a late night call to China, or God forbid, a bathroom run. Jim closed his eyes, slowing his steps as he did and running a hand through hair thoroughly bent on sticking up straight. He blindly entered the first of a series of rooms he had set up for his morning "business" rounds. And he would have walked straight into Sherlock if he hadn't decided to end the almost-sleep walk when he did.

As it was, he drew up short only to be brought face to face with the detective. Except the taller man's face was upside down…as was the rest of him…as he hung from his ankles by two lengths of cording run through a low hanging chandelier. The detective's slightly darkened coloring told the criminal just how long the other man had been there as of yet. Their eyes were about level with one another as Jim's went first wide, and then narrow in vexation. Then he sighed quite loudly, ducking his head as he pushed the hanging man to the side, starting a pendulum-like swaying of Sherlock's body on the ropes. The criminal called over his shoulder as he passed.

"You know you can die like that if done long enough? Just a thought for consideration." Jim stopped off at a computer desk and typed in a code to open his day's emails, grimacing at the amount displayed there. He had been a bit too preoccupied lately, apparently. He looked back up as the detective spoke.

"Yes, well. I could, ahem, use some, um, help…in that regard." It was almost comical to listen to the man say those words whilst swinging back and forth, spinning slowly clockwise. The shorter man held in his laughter, though. For now…

Jim typed a few lines and sent the first of several emails for the morning. Then he turned and walked briskly to another room adjacent to this one. Sherlock was only able to partially watch as he twisted on the lengths of cording. But he heard when Jim reentered the room, steps padding lightly over the carpeting. And as the detective's gaze finally came back around to face that of his one-time enemy, he quickly braced himself at what he saw.

Jim raised his arm up towards the ceiling, gun in hand. Two shots rang out, and the taller man fell to the ground with a _whuuumph_. And a few choice other noises, too, none of them dignified in the least. The criminal walked over to him, setting the gun on a side table as he did. Upon reaching the detective's crumpled form, he knelt down and spoke lightly.

"Now, what have we learned about upside down times?"

"Uunngghhh…." came the response from the disarray of tangled limbs.

"Goooood."

All of his emails were completed without further interruption that morning. Fancy that.

_6 days ago…_

The couch was just long enough for the lanky detective to stretch out on, and it had been dragged into this room especially for its more comfortable seating. The chamber they were located in itself was palatial in floor space, probably used for teleconferences prior to its hostile takeover. So it housed the largest screen in the building, which Jim thoroughly intended to put to use tonight. Even outlaws needed R&amp;R time it seemed. And though Sherlock was not the movie watching type, he found he was surprisingly willing to do things out of his comfort zone that would seemingly please the other man.

Jim had just finished attaching the DVD player to the feed into the screen and had popped in the disk a minute or so ago. An agent (maybe Moran?) delivered a large bowl of, yes, popcorn. Theater grade. Nothing but the best for the consulting criminal, of course. The shorter man nodded acceptance of the bowl, dismissing the agent, and turned to couch, stopping with a frown of contemplation as he surveyed the much-occupied space along the couch's cushions.

Sherlock had sprawled every inch of his long frame lengthways on the cushions, leaving nowhere for a certain criminal mastermind to find a seat. Jim harrumphed aloud to no effect. Setting the bowl down at a table that had also been requisitioned for their movie viewing purposes, he stepped to face the couch, examining his options. Finding nothing easier, he simply lifted the detective's legs, sat down, and deposited the extremities onto his lap, reaching for the remote as he finished his arrangement.

Sherlock cracked an eye open at the hands placed upon his person, but slid it silently closed again as he guessed what was being done. He heard the whir of the DVD player and the shifting of objects as Jim placed the remote down and grabbed the bowl of popcorn. Honestly, the detective didn't know what to make of the sheer domesticity of this situation. He wasn't uncomfortable, no. But he _was_ perplexed. Though this was a normal state of mind just about any time he tried to decipher the multilayered meanings behind Moriarty's actions or words.

Jim's hand was lightly stroking the top of his pajama clad leg, and though the detective didn't find it unpleasant, still he wondered at the reasoning behind it. Sleeping beside each other, the rare moments of their hands finding one another's while watching some particularly gruesome aspect of one of Jim's plans come to fruition, and the constant awareness of each other's location … _Perhaps he is misplacing feelings for another on me?_ Or some other reasoning deep rooted within the madman's psyche? After all, the criminal had obviously been through such horrors as those rarely documented for public review. At some point in his life, Jim was bound to reach out to someone or something, seeking a connection to balance the darkness within himself. And why not another borderline sociopathic genius? The methods he had gone about it gaining such a personage were, well, disturbing…but still, here they were…

He was just about to relax and perhaps retreat to his Mind Palace when the first few strains of introductory music for the movie caught his attention. Was that…? Surely not? Oh, surely not?! His eyes both snapped open to take in the scene before him, and the first few minutes of the feature rolled by, along with the title. Sherlock was…he was…dumbfounded. Here he was, lying along a couch with his legs propped up on a madman, watching, of all things, _The Little Mermaid_ with the same madman. Oh dear God, he had finally gone insane along with Jim. Lah-dee-dah.

Sherlock watched a few more minutes of the movie before he finally couldn't take it anymore. He pushed himself into a half-raised position on his elbows and spoke to Jim, whose eyes were trained on the screen.

"Little Mermaid? Hmm. Hans Christian Anderson's creation that was actually found later to be symbolic of his homosexuality. The mermaid, representing homosexuals, wants what she can't have, that being acceptance of loving and pining after the same gender, which is represented by the land and all of its human occupants. Tragic story really, I should think that…" His critical review was interrupted suddenly.

"Sherlock, really, will you just shut up?" Jim had turned his head to the taller man as he spoke. "Can't you not analyze _everything_?" A piece of popcorn flew at the taller man's head, sailing past. "Just watch something. Don't deduce it." The detective made a face at the other man, prepared to say something, but was beaten to it. "Anyways, I really just want to see the ending. I started this last week, but couldn't finish it because…well, I just couldn't. Things happened, you know. Anyway, just shut up. Here, eat some popcorn." The bowl was shoved in the general direction of the semi-reclining man as the criminal returned his gaze to the film. The cartoon Mergirl was upset over some kind of shipwreck with lots of useless things aboard it. It looked as if she might sing. Ghastly.

Sherlock took the bowl and set it on his legs instead, lying back against the seat cushions again and thinking. Jim had just been watching this last week? With who? And when? The detective had been fairly certain he had marked all of the criminal's movements within the house and without, as they had hardly been apart in the last couple weeks. The dark haired man glanced over at the stack of DVDs Jim had brought in to dig through for their current showing. All consisted of either children's films or something along a similar theme. Perhaps, the shorter man, having had his childhood stolen from him so violently…..maybe he was trying to reclaim some small part of it through watching these films?

"Jim…?"

"Yes," brown eyes kept their stare at the screen.

"Why do you have so many children's movies?" The criminal started slightly at the question, as if caught in a lie. Which was odd, since he hadn't actually said anything.

"Well, they aren't _just_ for kids, you know?" He slapped at the long legs on his lap. "Adults watch them, too." But the detective continued to stare down his nemesis, forcing him to feel compelled to continue. "And, they aren't _all_ children's movies. There's…there's, Shawshank Redemption! There's _that_ in the pile." Jim fidgeted with his shirt tail, and the detective decided to drop it as it only seemed to be agitating the man. And the degree of agitation suggested strongly that it had something to do with his childhood most probably. Well. No need to open that door ever again. He readjusted his legs on the criminal's lap in a way that told the other man that the inquisition was over, and he meant no harm by it. Several more minutes went by as the cartoon continued, both men silent, but only one truly watching the movie. Then a piece of popcorn pinged off the side of Jim's face.

_5 days ago…_

Sherlock and Jim sat at the end of a long dining table, night having fallen quickly with the oncoming rainshower. Several dishes had been set out before them, though very little had been actually touched by either. They had sat in silence for the better part of the last ten minutes or so, earlier having covered some of the planning regarding their upcoming Co-Heist next week at the British Museum. Conversation had dropped off after that, with each seeming to be waiting for something to happen. Yes…their silence was somewhat filled with…expectation. And it was putting the three agents spaced round the large dining room on edge.

Suddenly, one of the agents clutched at his throat and toppled over, foam erupting from his mouth as he suffocated in a thrashing fit on the floor. The other two watched at first in shock, then one ran to the fallen man, trying to assess what exactly had happened. The other, Sebastian Moran by name, quickly recovered from the shock and looked to his employer for instructions. Jim merely shrugged and indicated with a hand to get rid of the man on the floor. How bothersome. The agent nodded in acceptance. Then the criminal turned to Sherlock with an inquisitive expression, and the detective answered it.

"Eleven minutes, seventeen seconds," he grumbled, sounding somewhat annoyed by the numbers. The criminal smiled.

"Ah. I believe that puts me right at thirty-seven seconds off, to your minute and a half?"

"I've never used these kinds of percentages before!" the detective said, frustrated. "How can I be expected to make a proper educated guess when you won't even let me test anything beforehand?!" Sherlock hated losing. But the criminal wasn't hearing it.

"Pay. Up." Jim tapped an index finger against the wood of the tabletop as he spoke. And slowly, reluctantly, the taller man reached out and sent his fruit dish sliding across to the shorter man, who stopped its progress with the same tapping finger. And smiled.

_4 days ago…_

Another food related incident occurred just the next morning as they sat at breakfast. Nothing fancy. Jim had simply grabbed two bowls of milk and brought cereal to the small breakfast nook by an eastern facing window. It was a fantastic view of the lawn and one of the gardens. But all Jim could focus on was how Sherlock just sat there stirring his milk around and around the bowl, never reaching for the cereal box.

"Sherlock."

"Hmmm…?" came the distracted reply.

"Sherlock, you've got to eat something."

"I ate yesterday."

"You ate about 5 noodles and a pear slice."

"As I said. I ate yesterday. But it is very nice, and strange, how you monitor my caloric intake so regularly."

They sat in silence for another few minutes, Jim crunching determinedly, and loudly, on purpose. His brown eyed gaze burned into the other man…or rather, it burned _at_ him, as the detective didn't seem to notice it at all. Finally, though, Jim had had enough. He grabbed the box of cereal with its funny looking cartoon rabbit on the cover, dumped a portion of the cereal into Sherlock's milk, and slammed it back down beside the detective's hand.

"Sherlock. Eat. _Now_."

The blue-gray eyes looked up, and an exaggerated sigh followed. The taller man repositioned his spoon once more…and began to stir the little colored shapes of breakfast food around just as he had done to the milk. He spoke as he did this.

"Ridiculous cereal. _Trix_," he said with distaste. "Every commercial demonstrates a fine example of animal cruelty in removing a food source right from the rabbit's hands. However, I could _almost_ say he deserved it, as he so stupidly fails in all of his disguises. And why, just _why_, does he simply not _buy_ a box of the cereal he seems so enamored of? Or buy a different kind of cereal for which no one will tease him for trying to eat? Does he have no money? Because, if so, then this is really an even worse example of the poverty some…"

**BANG**!

The box of cereal exploded in a burst of colored fluff, the container lying dead on the floor below, a gaping hole in its center. Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder to where the bullet had entered the wall, causing several of the various shaped puffs to roll from his clothing to the floor in a rainbow cascade of destroyed breakfast. When he turned back, Jim placed the gun down on the tabletop and smiled as he gestured to the bowl before the other man.

"Now. _Eat_. Because that's the last bowl of cereal there is."

_3 days ago…_

They walked in a field full of wilted grass, brown from the cooling temperatures of the Fall weather. It crunched pleasantly underneath their shoes, like the bones of a conquered society. Their banter had no real purpose other than passing the time. Jim had tried discussing theories of cosmic structure and folded time at one point, but found an unexpected lack of informational input from the detective. He suspected the other man had been secretly embarrassed by this admission but didn't push. He thought it…cute?

No, certainly not. No.

They continued on for a ways, moving in a slow circle back to where they had started from. It suddenly occurred to Jim that he was famished. He looked to the man beside him, knowing the other would probably drop from hunger before ever admitting it and sighed internally. Well, _he_ wasn't going to go without.

"Hungry?" Jim inquired softly, looking sideways at his taller companion.

"Mm," came the now-expected noncommittal response.

"Fine. We're getting Thai then, since _you_ offered no input." Another generic noise of assent greeted this. Jim patted himself down for his phone. Where had he put it? "I'll just call the car back from town as soon as I find my mobile." His hands were still finding nothing, though. Hmmm. "Have you pickpocketed me, Sherlock Holmes?" he asked in amusement, but his question was met by confusion from the detective.

"No. Too easy," the other joked.

"Well, then, where can I have…?" Jim trailed off as they both had the same thought. And their eyes turned simultaneously to the extravagant housefire blazing about fifty yards to their right where the criminal had finished an "interrogation" twenty minutes before. _Oh…_ Something in the back of the house sent out a particularly large gust of flames as they watched. Jim pursed his lips, then sighed, turning them to the road. Sherlock's phone would do them no good because it was programmed to only allow calls between himself and a few other key employees.

"Well," Jim said as he looked at the sky, "at least it's not raining."

They entered the town perhaps an hour later.

It started raining twenty minutes before they got there….

_2 days ago…._

Sherlock walked down the hallway of the mansion for the 3rd time that morning, for once having forgone watching Jim run the lawn. He had just felt a need to break the routine, be less predictable. He didn't know why, he just felt the urge…and so here he was. Slacks and a shirt that seemed to have been forgotten about wrapped his long and lean form as he continued on his way. The shirt tails fluttered as he walked, and he belatedly hoped that he wouldn't encounter any sharp objects as he had also forgotten shoes. He glanced down, thinking, _Socks, though. Half the battle_. All had been fairly silent and still thus far, with the occasional guard encountered. Quiet bunch, they never did anything but nod or give him a kind of look that he had labeled as a kind of distrustful "stink eye." He twitched one shirt cuff closed at the thought of the ignorant apes raking him over with their suspicious glares.

Suddenly, music erupted from his pocket, and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" burst forth with epic loudness in the quiet environment. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin as he slapped a hand to his hip to fish out the phone. He stared murder at the screen and huffed something that sounded like, "_Really_?" And he grimaced when the song was finally silenced. He swiped the screen and gazed at the message thereon, wondering what in the world Jim could have to tell him that was so important that the other man couldn't be bothered to wait another few minutes to say in person. The text message read:

**Catch me… -JM**

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and then looked up and down the length of hallway, then back down at the screen. He turned to face back the way he had come from, listening. Nothing. His eyes roved left to right, taking in the camera locations in this wing. Hmmmm… He pulled the phone back up to start texting, but another message came in. Thankfully, he was able to stop the song from making it to completion again. The second message read:

…**if you can. –JM**

He was about to shout up at the cameras when he heard the rhythmic slapping of shoes on hardwood coming behind him. He smiled, thinking something entirely different was going to happen…not that he was going to be clotheslined to the floor by Jim's outstretched arm. He fell with a grunt, and watched, partially from an upside down viewpoint, as the criminal spun at the end of the hall and whipped out his own phone, typing madly. Seconds later, the detective's mobile began to sing out. He grabbed it in annoyance and, with one last glare in Jim's direction, he opened the message.

**Cops &amp; Robbers, detective. Come get me. –JM**

And with that, Sherlock heard a small chuckle as Jim took off down the side hall. The detective shoved himself up and stumbled slightly, as his socks didn't give great purchase on the slippery wood floors. But once he righted himself, he smirked, pocketed his phone, and took off after the other man.

He followed the path he thought most likely at first, bringing out a mental mapping of the room layout he had gathered from his morning rounds. And soon he heard something crash as he turned the corner into a large receiving room with a staircase leading on to one of the upper levels. Jim stood at the head of the staircase, a shattered vase lying on the floor below. He smiled and waved.

"Whoopsie!"

The criminal took off again, the detective gaining ground quickly with his long legs. However, Jim was technically in better shape, having run almost his entire life for one reason or another. And he was very, very, good at it. He dodged around large encased plants, over furniture, and around towering columns in rooms that Sherlock could only fathom the uses for. They circled the same rooms sometimes, seeming to be slowly widening their circle in the building, though. Jim used the largest halls to get distance, as he could break away and sprint through the open floor.

It was in one such room that the shorter man chose to stop, hiding himself behind a large column of worked marble. A ballroom perhaps? They had passed through it a couple times already, and he had chosen his stopping point wisely for its access to various escape routes. His breath puffed out in the manner of those accustomed to lengthy runs, a light perspiration dusting his features as he peered around his hiding spot. Nothing. Heh. Near him were three choice exits leading to portions of the second floor that had various twists and turns where he could maybe lose the detective in the details. He smiled and pulled his phone out again, typing.

**Where. Are. You? –JM**

Some distance away, he heard the song begin to play, and he smiled wider. Sherlock was on the far side of the room? Ha. No chance to catch him now. Maybe he should give him a hint? Yes. Jim flattened along the column, pressing himself against it, and then leaned out slightly to his left to peer around.

His grin faltered for just a second when his eyes met nothing but an empty room…with a discarded mobile lying on the floor against the far wall. Then he closed his eyes with a different kind of smile entirely as he heard the soft and swift stocking clad feet of the detective coming upon him. He laughed and set his arms up in the stereotypical "under arrest" surrender pose while still facing the marble column. Then he heard a muttered curse just before Sherlock Holmes' sliding feet sent the detective plowing into the back of the shorter man.

Jim's breath released in a _whoof_ of uncomfortable pressure as he was rammed into the stonework. Sherlock grabbed around him for support to keep from falling and embarrassing himself even further. If that was even possible at this point. And no, it wasn't; but he managed.

The detective found himself then, pressed tightly up against his one-time enemy, arms now up above the other's head as if sheltering him from some unknown threat. He panted a bit harshly just behind the criminal's ear, elated success riding his tone.

"Caught you."

And Jim shivered at those words, his eyelids fluttering. He slid his palms slowly down the marble, catching on the detective's own hands as he did, and causing those long artist's fingers to slide down with his own. This ended with the detective's hands enveloping the criminal's as they came to rest at their sides. And they stood there, Jim's chest touching the cool stone, with his back flush against the taller man's sternum, hands entwined on either side. The now-captured man's soft Irish lilt began with an almost-chuckle and ended with a low whisper into the room, still empty but for themselves.

"Yes….. You have."

And internally…he begged for mercy…

_1 day ago…_

They sped along under the noonday sun in what had to be one of the most beautiful days of the year. The clouds had decided to part, the sun shone through merrily, sparkling off of the hood of the stolen car, and the wind blew enticingly through their hair as Jim and Sherlock blazed down a wide country highway. The criminal downshifted once more, grinding up the last bit of horsepower that could be mustered from the automobile. Glancing to his left, he was pleased to find the detective smiling for once. It was such a rare occurrence to catch unsuspecting upon the other man's lips. Perhaps it was the thrill of the theft? Or maybe the breakneck speed they traveled? Or, Jim twisted to check the road behind them, maybe it was the six squad cars in angry pursuit? He turned back around to face forward and adjusted the rearview mirror. Yeah, those probably had something more to do with it...

Jim pulled his mobile from his coat pocket, steering one-handed as he flicked through the screens, checking their positioning. Confirming their route, he replaced the phone and reached for his snow cone, sipping from the tiny straw as if it was the most distinguished of alcoholic beverages. Then he turned his attention once more to the detective as he spoke.

"Sherlock…. Do you know how to fly a plane by chance?" A slightly confused stare was given in answer before it made it into verbal communication.

"….no."

"Oh….well, then. Um, here." Jim pulled his phone out once more and unlocked the screen before tossing it into the other man's lap. "Pull up Youtube or something and see what you can find quickest about the smaller engine private planes. Crop dusters and such, I should think." The detective gave him another quizzical look before setting to, as the criminal finished with, "You've got about twelve, maybe fifteen, minutes. Don't waste them." And they sped onward down the highway, where, miles ahead lay a small private airfield.

Sherlock googled and watched and read, absorbing the information in his typical stoic fashion, completely immersed in the task as the car swayed from side to side. The squad cars had gained a bit when Jim had been looking at his phone, and now they had begun firing random shots. The criminal reached between the seats and pulled a .38 from where he had jammed it when they stole the car, one hand on the wheel and the other steadying its aim out behind him. He was doubly glad now that they had stolen a convertible. He got off two shots before he had to turn his focus back to driving. But it was enough to warn the pursuers back a bit.

They hit the paved beginning of the airfield minutes later, tires sliding as they cut the sharp turn through the gate. They had a good start on the pursuers, too. Perhaps over a minute, maybe two. A couple of the closest squad cars slid past the gate and missed, but the others made it through shortly after. Jim looked to Sherlock. They'd have very limited time to accomplish this. Better make it efficient.

"_Well_?"

"Yes?"

"Have you done it?"

"Yes."

"Are you doing it?"

"What?" A glare. "Yes!" Jim indicated the airfield before them when the detective's eyes left the screen at his annoyingly persistent questions.

"Which of these?" Jim yelled as he gestured towards the five or so small planes that were parked along the strip. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he compared them to what he had just studied, then his hand shot up to point at the one next to last on the left.

"Red and yellow one there."

"Alright. You ready?" The criminal glanced behind them. "Couple minutes is all we'll have. You got this?" He received only a smirk in reply.

They screeched to a halt, almost tumbling out of the car in their haste, both moving swiftly nonetheless to kick the wheel blocks out of the way. Jim leapt into the front seat of the small aircraft, snapping a belt over himself and placing the goggles hanging in front of him on his face. Sherlock followed suit seconds later, kicking the mounting ladder away from the craft. He sat and assimilated the controls before himself, adjusting his newfound knowledge to some of the unfamiliar panels that greeted his eyes. That is, he did until heard Jim mutter his name in annoyance as the other man watched the swiftly approaching police force. The detective grunted in his own fit of pique.

"_Fine_."

And the engine started, the propeller whirred to life, and moments later the small plane rolled forward from its motionless brethren. Sherlock picked up speed quickly, but it wasn't all that fast at this point, and the cars were almost upon them. Jim twisted round and fired another two shots off, actually hitting one of the officers driving a front running automobile. The car twisted and crashed into another, further slowing the pursuit. He smiled and sat back in his seat once more, feeling the wind pick up as they pulled round to the beginning of the runway.

Far off in the field, a man emerged from a shoddily maintained hangar of sorts, shouting who knew what kind of profanities at them. The owner, most probably. The man had made it out just in time to watch as the two thieves broke out down the runway, picking up further speed, bouncing a few times, and then finally maintaining air. It wasn't the prettiest of takeoffs, but for a new learner, it would do. The angle was a bit steep, and introduced a good bit of nausea into both of their constitutions, but otherwise they were fine.

The detective leveled the plane out at what he figured to be a safe enough altitude that he wouldn't hit any random trees or whatnot. The ride was still jerky and not entirely comfortable, but it would do. It seemed like something was pulling or tugging, which was probably the result of the taller man forgetting to adjust one of the smaller settings for the plane's wings. Jim turned back to him, intent on telling him…_something_. But his thought flew out of his head as the criminal witnessed what lay behind them… And he just laughed. True, unadulterated laughter that he could barely hold in, tears erupting from the strain and collecting in the bottoms of the goggles.

Sherlock frowned as he watched the madman seemingly turn even more mad right in front of him. Great. Perfect time for Jim to lose it. But he just had to see what the other man found so damn funny. Perhaps one of the pursuers' cars had exploded or some such thing? Yes, that would set the other man into giggles, he was sure. He turned slowly, trying not to knock the steering mechanism and rock them further. His eyes sought the escape route behind them…and found it there. And then he, too, let out a surprised laugh as he flew on. Streaming out behind them was a sign:

**{Marry Me Suzie O'Brannon!}**

Well then. That was… interesting. He watched as Jim finally got himself under control and began to search on his phone once more, occasionally having a tremor of chuckling roll over him. The criminal turned back to him and indicated a direction, which he adjusted to. The shorter man then made a series of hand gestures that the detective interpreted as being "fly this way for fifteen minutes and then we're landing." Sherlock nodded his understanding and then grabbed for his own phone, needing to communicate something but unsure how to pantomime it. His knees sufficed for steering while he typed quickly, sending at the end.

Jim looked down when he felt the phone vibrate against his chest. He pulled it up and swiped open the screen, reading the text Sherlock had sent. His face went a bit pale, and he turned to look back at the other man, who nodded as if to confirm that, yes, Jim had read it correctly. The shorter man turned back to face forward, his dramatic sigh going unheard over the roar of the engine and wind. Then his head fell forward, chin to chest, and his hand rose to massage his temple.

...

**You only told me to learn how to fly, not to land. –SH**

_Present…_

Sherlock came back to the present with a small half-smile resting on his face. He turned his gaze to the bleary morning sun. Was this what ordinary people meant about always needing to appreciate the small things? Interesting. But he quite enjoyed the "non" small things as well. In fact, he was just flat enjoying this time spent with his one-time enemy turned fri….end? Well, at least that. Surely. Certainly they were made to be together. Just, in what capacity?

Across the lawn, Jim had slowed to a walk to cool down from his run. Sherlock's eyes followed him, tracked him, marked him. His gaze had a weight to it that held an endless reel of questions. But when the criminal came around to where he was, offering a hand to help him up from the grass, he found he couldn't remember any of them. And what was more…he didn't care.


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Okay, I will try to get the next chapter out quickly. It is already halfway written, and I expect some folks are gonna be cursing me for the moment that I ended this chapter with. But it was just dragging out too long for one single chapter, so I have broken it in two. So for those who read to the bottom and just need reassurances…yes, it **_**will**_** happen…**

They had entered the large estate and soon after gone their separate ways that morning. Jim to shower, and Sherlock to…well, to be Sherlock. The tall man soon found himself somewhat bored of the company of plants in the gardens and such, and so had taken to following the sentinel-like guards in such an obvious and intrusive manner that they were beginning to daydream about laser dots on his forehead. It was honestly like having a toddler trail behind you. An exceptionally rude and insulting toddler. Except that one could discipline a toddler. Whereas Moriarty's men had explicit orders that no one, _no one_, was to lay a hand on Sherlock Holmes but the criminal himself. And so, this went on past noon, with the detective wondering how they could all stand such horridly dull work, and them wondering just how much longer until their boss would occupy the annoying twit's time again.

Yet Sherlock was not truly focused on his subjects' total annoyance, otherwise they may have needed a debriefing at the end of their shift. No. His great and brilliant mind was filled with more intriguing matters. And these types of contemplations oftentimes were more thorough when the body was preoccupied so that the mind could fly free. And so it did. His body whiled away the hours in the relative safety of bothering the various suited men stationed throughout the grounds, while his brain slipped its tethers and traveled down paths of introspection both stimulating and uncomfortable in nature. But Holmes had never shied away from something simply due to a bit of discomfort. Therefore, he jumped in and fully submersed himself within his subject of study: _**Us**_.

Friend. Such a small word. Too small to encompass this, this…almost-obsession that he knew was mutually shared between them. But what, then, was further? He had no experience here, and no research on which to fall back on and study. Though in fact, he was quite certain he wouldn't believe any kind of publishing on this topic that labeled itself "research." Absurd. By what he could tell with his limited view, friendship was a personally developed and biased categorizing of one's emotions. Therefore, how can any one person's experience lead to an understanding of another's? Highly improbable, as all people were vastly different in their walks of life and emotional range. And then, there was the additional factor to be considered that neither he nor Jim could ever fit into what most would call "the norm." In fact, he was willing to bet that _they_ would be excluded from any and all studies involving human behavior scales of any sort. That is, if the researcher had any sense of integrity at all. Well, then. Where did that leave him?

Though he could see the clear madness in the angle and trajectory of his thoughts' path, still he couldn't pull away from it either. Moriarty was always like a drug to him. Of the most potent kind. Ever stimulating, twisting his faculties in on themselves and causing him to have to rework many of his presumed rights and wrongs in order to reach the end of the maze. But he had come to know that it wasn't the ending that he sought. No. That _was_ satisfying in itself, but…. But he remembered the in-between-times when he was waiting for the next move his nemesis would make…and _that_, that right there, underscored for him what was truly important. The chase. The pursuit. He craved it. He detoxed from it when there was none, just as in his junkie years. He would find himself scanning the papers for a hint, just a sliver of knowledge, that Jim was still out there, willing and able to create another challenge for him. Another crime. Another murder. His next fix…

And that couldn't be labeled as mere friendship. Not even back in the beginning. _Especially_ not back then, when they seemed on the verge of killing each other at every turn. Sherlock suspected the criminal of craving the same high as he. Seeking the thrill of pursuit rather than the endpoint of success or failure. And now this, his current state…Jim had kidnapped him, and he was still unsure of _why_ exactly. Those first few days were still very hazy to him. He remembered being drugged. A lot, and often. And he remembered various forms of torture, not much on the physical side, but more of the psychological nature. Certain medicines and drugs left the mind very open and vulnerable to attacks of that sort. And the detective had no doubt that Jim had used every ounce of knowledge at his disposal to wrench what he sought after from the arrangement. But _what_ did he seek? Did he seek it still? Or had he…found it?

Everything was so different from "the before." When he thought of their interactions prior to his kidnapping, he could see the magnetism, the fascination…but he could also sense an undercurrent of fear. So strange. It was as if, when they met at the pool that night, Sherlock had been afraid for someone. Himself? No, he'd never bothered to be afraid for himself before. Was he afraid for Jim? Pah. Now that was just stupid. So maybe he had been afraid that they would _end_ there, when they finally met for the first time? Afraid that the game might end, and then he would left to the ordinary once more? So many feelings ran together from that memory. The simultaneous pangs of fear, obsession, and a strong sense of loyalty confused him more than helped him when he thought of those times. He couldn't sort them, but they were all centered on Jim, who was the only other possible recipient in his memory. But how can you feel all of those things toward one person? It seemed too irrational. Unless…

He thought of his last stable memory of Jim before his kidnapping, when they had spoken over tea. Jim had arrived just after being cleared of all charges. They had sat, in Sherlock's own flat, and shared tea and veiled insults. _It's going to begin very soon, Sherlock. The fall_…. What had he meant? The fall? Metaphorical, physical…? Gah! So frustrating. He remembered very little about the time then leading up to his kidnapping. And he remembered nothing at all of the actual event itself. Had Jim been going to finally end it all between them? The game? Over? Horrifying to contemplate as it was, the detective thought he might be on to something. But then…wait…

_Oh_…

Everything. _Everything_ came slamming into his mind at once concerning the criminal. All of his emotions that centered around the man. All of the games and challenges they posed to one another. The pursuit, the thrill of the chase, and the high of its completion… All of those things were done _for_ Sherlock. Specifically for him alone. Jim had even brought them together in the spotlight in the court that day. Showing off…always…showing off…as if…courting… Oh… _Oh_… Was that…? Could it…? No…but… _Yes_… How else would individuals with their class of intelligence and lack of social niceties go about it? Normal people might receive a bouquet of flowers from a suitor. Jim sent dead bodies and blood spattered puzzles to solve. The ordinary person might string together a video asking "will you marry me" at a ballgame… Jim Moriarty brought you into a courtroom to testify against him in an airtight case that should lock him away forever…and then walked free to have tea with you later that same day.

Oh yes…this was something altogether different.

So, then… What to do? How to feel? The detective was so lost and out of his depth it felt alternately like drowning and being crushed inside a bucket of bent nails. Surely, before the kidnapping, he had been obsessed with Jim. Yes, he admitted that much. And after…well, at first he had spent his days confused and kind of semi-rebellious of anyone having control over him in such a way. It had been clear that the criminal had something planned for him, but…it had changed. Somehow. Something had happened during his stay with the other man. The climate between them _now_ as compared to _then_ was much altered. Not even comparable really. And in the last few weeks, Sherlock had found himself enjoying their time together more and more, though he had tried not to be very demonstrative of it. So….what?

Should he…try something? Dammit. He had never before been this timid and confused as to what his own actions should be. He was a child in this matter, floundering about and hoping to reach dry ground and a sane decision. He sighed. What did it matter anyway? He had never prided himself on _sane_ decisions. Just ones that made sense to himself. And if he was truthful…_careful, careful_…then he would admit that this idea growing inside him did appeal on many levels. Where else would he ever find someone so understanding of his quirks, his habits, his flaws…? Nowhere. It was as if they shared the same wavelength of light, just with Jim at the darker end of the spectrum they ran through.

He came back to himself as he was about to pluck another hair off of the agent's chest who stood before him. They were all as bad as the guards at Buckingham, standing around so motionless and unresponsive. Ridiculous. He grabbed the man's hand and set the tweezers down in it, giving him a smile that the agent took in as being quite deranged, and then the detective set off to find Jim and…try something. He glanced at the sky, almost dark, and walked in the most likely direction to find the criminal.

On the other side of the vast array of hallways, rooms, and storage, during that same morning, Jim Moriarty had showered, called three business associates about the Museum Job tomorrow, and had sent out multiple emails to arrange for any and all occurrences at said job. Confident he was, but not stupidly so. Jim always planned for backup after backup. And he was not about to start taking chances now that things had become so…_interesting_ between himself and the detective.

He found himself now in the mid-afternoon with nothing more to be done concerning the next day's job. It would go off, or they would just blow a lot of stuff up and have fun anyway. He clicked over some camera feeds and located Sherlock, who seemed to be intent on bursting the vein in one his agents' foreheads. He appeared to be questioning…no. Not questioning. Deducing. Ah, now the agent's advanced state of discomfort made sense. Well, if you can't handle having your own life reviewed, well then… He smiled and then turned to stand.

He made his way through another room and down the hallway to his main suite, his mind heavy with the subject of a certain gray eyed problem. Except it wasn't really a problem, more a decision. A terrifying one. One he had been putting off for days now. Jim crossed the room and set himself down upon a chaise lounge with a loud expulsion of breath. And after finding that it had not made anything feel any better, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushion, letting his thoughts drift along any route at first. Time passed until his mind found an acute focus for the problem at hand. A filter, of sorts. He didn't quite seek his Hall of Mirrors, though. He had no need to travel through all of those memories when he knew which specific one he needed right from the start. And that mirror's contents came to him now more as an insubstantial thought than any actual form behind his closed lids.

**Seraena**, he sent out, seeking.

_Jim. You came back to me_, came the warm answer, full of amusement.

**I always have. Just not soon enough**…

_Don't do that, Jim_, she responded with a touch of reproach.

**Sorry**.

_No you're not_, came amusement again.

**No**.

_Well then, out with it. You wouldn't be here talking with a ghost in your own head if it wasn't important_.

**Maybe there's nothing, really. Maybe I just wanted to hear you once more. Maybe**…

_Jim_.

…..

_Jim, _came her reprimand,somewhat firmer this time.

…**yes**?

_Are you happy?_

…**I**…**astoundingly, yes**…

_Then you have your answer_.

**No. But it's not that easy. It's…complicated**.

_If it's worth it…if __**he's**__ worth it…then of course it is_.

**But… How did you…? I just**…

_Jimmy…? What's the matter?_

**Nothing. Nevermind**.

_James Aeden…..Tell. Me_.

…..

Time passed. And it seemed there would be no forthcoming answer on his side. But when the silence had finally drawn its line solid, the barest sliver of a whisper escaped him, laced with so much pain and despair that all the angels of hell seemed to weep through the words.

**I'm so afraid**…..

The admission seemed to echo and multiply a thousand times in his head and heart. Everything. All of this…could so easily end him. When had he become this vulnerable? This _ordinary_? It was so frustratingly inescapable, and he hated it, hated it, hated it, _hated_…no. No. He didn't. And that worried him even more. When had his obsession with the detective turned into…this? He just couldn't…

_Jim_?

**Yes**?

_Do you love him_?

…..

Jim's eyes snapped open, immediately scanning his surroundings and taking in the change in the lighting. Early evening, just falling dark. He'd had no idea he'd been down that long. It was almost unfathomable to him. Generally, he was always so in control of his little "mental excursions." Not like the detective, who could be lost in his own head for days. His mood shifted from despair and loneliness on to what was now beginning to burn over into anger. His fists clenched tightly.

His own thoughts were now turning against him! His own memories…betrayed him. It seemed no matter how he turned it in his mind, he was doomed to repeat his own history: to live in constant self-loathing and misery, until finding happiness, only to have it torn from him…by his own hands. No. He wouldn't allow it. Ever again. His own feelings in the matter didn't count. All that really counted was that what he valued, what he now held as _everything_, was protected. Even if there was the barest chance that he could..…

His thoughts ceased as he sensed another presence in the room with him. His eyes sought the room's darkest corners, seeking treachery. However, what he found was the detective's familiar form standing at the doorway, watching him. How had he missed him the first time he'd looked around? How long had he been there? Jim pulled himself up and looked quizzically at the other man. Sherlock straightened himself from where he leaned on the doorframe.

"You weren't at your desk. I found it odd for this time of day," the detective said with a shrug. The criminal glanced once more out the window, as if to confirm to himself once again that he had, in fact, been out of it for many hours. And when he looked back at the other man, he saw questions hanging within that angelic countenance. Damn. He shook his head ruefully, putting on an air of nonchalant nothing-is-wrong-or-odd-about-me. Then he hopped up from the lounger, stretching the kinks out from where he had been lying in one position for so extended a period, and buying himself time to plan his actions. He smiled at the taller man, deciding to play about as if nothing new had been decided upon. Nothing new had been developed or realized. It was so much safer that way... _Distract him_, he thought as he spoke finally.

"Did you miss me?" And Sherlock merely smirked in reply to this. Jim exaggerated a pout and strode over, tapping the other man on the shoulder as he passed. "Come on. I'm sure there's something around here to eat." The criminal clapped his hands together. "Ooooohh, and we can maybe watch another movie?" This earned him a full out eye roll as the taller man fell in beside him. Jim frowned. Well, they were _definitely_ watching one now, the big git.

But before they made it through the second hallway, Jim felt a hand fall upon his elbow. He slowed and turned halfway to look. Sherlock had stopped a foot or so back, an expression upon his face that Jim thought at once he might die from. Aimed at the criminal's own gaze, it was a look of both deep concentration and introspection. Apparently, they had each done a bit of that today. But as the shorter man read the lines and planes of his face, the various subtle shifts, he saw that Sherlock had reached a very different conclusion from his own. He sighed internally and prepared himself to rebuff the other. Sure, the detective would find it odd, after Jim himself had been so forward in the past, but it was necessary. Not even a few weeks ago, the criminal would have never supposed this could have even been a possibility, a chink in his armor. His own Achilles' heel.

"Jim…?" came the soft inquiry, bringing him out of his thoughts. The criminal turned to fully face the other, keeping a blank look of disinterest across his features, hoping it would dispel the seeming courage that had taken hold of the detective. His face was set as it was when he met with clients. This was to be his own version of courage, and it entailed complete denial. Jim didn't need to answer the other man, as his expression asked 'what' for him. So Sherlock continued.

"There's something I…I mean…" Dark brows furrowed suddenly on the detective's pale features, as if he had lost the words. "I think…that is… I would like…to try something..." The blue-gray orbs stared earnestly across at him, and the taller man took a step closer, leaving only inches between them. Not intrusive, but well within their personal space boundaries.

"Sherlock…" Jim cautioned, his low voice a thundercloud of menace. He didn't want to deal with this now.

"No," the taller man replied, though he knew and recognized the warning for what it was. And realized also that Jim had already read him like no one else _ever_ would be able to. The other man _knew_ what Sherlock wanted but was set on pretending otherwise. He examined the criminal's face and body language, quickly reaching an interpretation. The shorter man _knew_ what he wanted, yes…and _feared_ it. _Oh_… Given what he had deduced about Jim's past, there was probably good reason for that…especially after having encountered his brother… Before, Jim's advances had been more about power and obsession…but now…now, there was something indefinable behind them. Something…_more_.

The detective reached out a hand to towards the other's face, and Jim turned away to try for an escape. The criminal thought if he was quick enough, perhaps this could drop, and then maybe the other would let it go. And he'd be safe…everything would be safe…

But Jim was stopped short by a firm hand on his shoulder that pulled him back to facing the detective, now with even fewer inches separating them, as the taller man had stepped forward to catch him. And the criminal despaired as he once again realized through that single casual touch that this man was the only person who could ever touch him without consequences. He remembered their words in the pool room so long ago.

_No one ever gets to me_….

**I did**.

_Damn you, Sherlock Holmes,_ he thought, but without much force behind it now. This was his present, not his past. Focus. Don't react.

The detective tried again, lifting his hand slowly from its perch on the shoulder to hover right over the criminal's jawline, just out of contact. He spoke in a whisper, as if he would scare the other away with anything more forceful.

"Let me try…."

Jim heard the words as he stared into those celestial pools of eternity. He felt trapped in the gravity between their bodies, and it seemed to be growing stronger with each passing second, pulling them together. It felt inevitable. He had to get out of this. This wasn't safe any longer. It would only end badly. It would only hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and _hurt_… Something cool brushed against his cheek and came to rest beneath his jaw. His knees almost took him to the ground. _Yessss_…..

Oh, God…the _fall_…

It was nothing like what he had planned…..

Jim's eyes slid closed…..

…and he fell…

…..

Sherlock held all of the power in this one moment. Equal balances of creation and destruction rested just at his fingertips as they remained lightly under the criminal's jawline. He sensed it, and he knew the other had already acknowledged it…and surrendered to it. If he stopped now, then perhaps nothing would ever come of this. They would continue on, perhaps a bit awkwardly, but not fatally so. But…if…just _if_…he did…_this_… He brushed a finger back and forth, grazing the edge of Moriarty's throat, observing the affect he was having on the other as a flush came to the pale cheeks, and the pulse point in the neck beat faster. _This_ could lead…somewhere new. Somewhere neither of them could have predicted or anticipated. And that, in itself, was amazing. And it was so, so…tempting…to try…

Just.

One.

More.

Touch.

And so he did, running his hand down along Jim's neck, earning a low, and surprisingly submissive, hum from the other man. Sherlock's vision drew down to one point, right there beside his fingers. Drawn to it as if he were a creature out of Moriarty's fairy tales, he leaned down, sliding the hand behind and into the shorter man's hairline, as the other hand moved to rest lightly on a hip. Jim held quiet beneath his touch as the detective's mouth came just over the tender length of skin along his collar. His breath warmed it, sending a thrill of electricity through the criminal's body as Sherlock spoke softly once more.

"Let me."

His lips closed over the chosen spot of Jim's neckline… And the criminal's previously thrumming body went still beneath him, like prey being taken by predator. But this prey welcomed the kill. And he hoped it would be oh, _so_ bloody.

Sherlock's lips moved like silken sin along the column of Jim's neck. The man tasted of memories to the detective. Old and new. From their first teasing encounter, to the moments leading up to _this_. He even fancied he could taste the sunlight dancing along the shores of Ireland upon his tongue as it lathed its way up to the lone earlobe, which he took between his teeth and tugged softly, once, twice. Jim finally unfroze and brought his arms up to grip around the detective's waist tentatively, as if still fighting an internal battle of will. The hands slid around and pulled the taller man against him, unsure.

Sherlock released the earlobe and grazed his cheek against the other man's as he pulled back slowly. Jim's ever-present two-day stubble rasped against his own smooth features. And when he made contact with those teasingly honest brown eyes, he held motionless for a moment so that they breathed the same air, shared it, _burned_ it. An invisible firestorm had erupted between them, an inferno fueled by endless passion and rage, the heat palpable in its intensity, threatening to burn them both if neither acted soon. And so they did, in tandem.

Jim's mouth crashed into Sherlock's as his previous paralysis seemed to lift, and his body was his own again. He grabbed at the detective's sides and pulled him harder against himself with an urgency that bespoke desperation and perhaps a touch of fear. The criminal then pushed him back against the wall of the hallway and began pawing at his jacket. But the detective caught his hands and _tsked_, pushing off and starting them moving towards one of the doorways, with Jim walking backwards, wrists held firmly by the other. His eyes were dark, so dark….

They crossed the border of the door and Sherlock tugged Jim sideways, catching him off balance. He stepped the smaller man softly to where his back was against the wall just inside the work room, then released his hold. The criminal was about to resume his previous attempt with the detective's jacket, but something in those blue-gray eyes held him static for a moment. Sherlock's hands both came up, with one to stop and rest over Jim's heart, and the other to his face.

Jim knew what the man before him was doing. He had watched it from afar as often as not. They had even played the game between them on purpose weeks ago. But for some reason, this time, when Sherlock Holmes stood so close, with his hands so gentle, and _deduced_ him….he felt so utterly exposed. So filthy, so disgusting and unworthy, so…

The hands moved on his body once more, interrupting his tirade of shame. The one over his heart came to the opposite side of his face, and the detective shook his head so slightly that it may not have even happened at all. And that cupid's bow formed a soundless word, _Stop_. And Jim could have wept for the fool he was.

When Sherlock's lips met his again this time, it was soft and light, feather down and silk. A thumb smoothed its way back along Jim's cheek, and he sighed into the action. Sherlock may not know everything about him. But he knew more than anyone else now living. And here he was. Here _they_ were. It was so ridiculously incongruous that they were doing this. So wonderfully chaotic. And the criminal's heart, usually neglected and dull, thrived under their shared actions. No, this didn't fix anything, but it was a start. It didn't erase the age old wounds that each of them shared, but it made them less noticeable. And it didn't change Jim's decision from a week ago…but it did reaffirm its necessity. He blinked his eyes open once, quickly, just to visualize his new world. This needed preserving, protecting…and there was only one way to accomplish that, he knew. And he would do it…but not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.

Jim brought his arms up to encircle the detective's shoulders and guide the kiss a bit more. The feel of even the fabric of the other man's clothing set his nerves to liquid, pulsing desire. And the need to tear at them and rend them from the skin beneath was almost overpowering. Jim had never felt this out of control. He, who prided himself on his ability to remain aloof and distant from anything he chose. He could stifle all feeling in an instant. And he _did_ feel things, intensely. But unlike Sherlock, he chose to experience everything all at once, rather than to suppress it all. Thus, his unpredictability stemmed from the fact that he never knew which of the emotions would rise to the fore at any given time. It made for an interesting life.

But here and now, all of the waiting, the wanting, the hidden desires of his battered heart were revealed in all their ghostly relief. And he couldn't stop. It would have been smarter…safer. But he couldn't. This was beyond him; and his being, his very essence, lay in the hands of a man who had once been labeled an enemy. Now a…friend? Lover? No. Too paltry of words for what he felt here. He felt Sherlock's tongue sliding against his own. This was far too much for the idiocy of spoken words. The heat of their mouths and the all-encompassing knowledge and feel of another against himself burned his thoughts to ashes. Perhaps the gods, in their infinite wisdom and ultimate fallacy, would one day be able to place a label upon what passed between them here this night. As for Jim Moriarty, he no longer cared.

He grasped at the shoulders of Sherlock's jacket and had it slid halfway down the other's shoulders before he was once again stopped. And he growled at the interruption of his quest for what lay beneath that silken coat and shirt. But the removal of those lips from his own, and a hand to his sternum pressing him back, had him almost mewling in distress. He looked up in sudden terror that the detective had decided against this. But no. That _look_ was still there, ever-present before, but so much clearer now. How had he ever missed that?

Jim saw the other man read the fear in his miniscule actions, and he tensed, defensive. But no, of course that wasn't necessary. Sherlock just looked down at him and slowly…carefully…removed his own jacket. Then he stepped against the criminal once more, reaching up to take his time in undoing the complex knot Jim had set his tie with. And as his fingers worked, every now and then brushing slightly against Moriarty's chest or neck, the deep baritone also flowed out of him. The detective kept his eyes on the knot as he spoke.

"James…" Jim winced at hearing his full first name. "No. Stop that, James. It's your name. Who you are." The tie slowly began to unravel beneath nimble fingers. "Stop rushing me…please. This is…something new to me. And…I think…to you, too. And therefore, it is special." Those glacial eyes jumped up to his own, sending a shiver of anticipation straight through Jim's chest. "_You_ are special, James Moriarty. And you deserve so much better than a quick shag in a stolen home." The tie fell to the floor, and Sherlock started on the shirt buttons, with Jim mesmerized by his words, so unexpectedly kind. No one was ever kind... "But, as I have nowhere else to offer, we are stuck for location." A smile at this. "However," he continued, deeper this time, "I will not take you like some common whore." Those eyes burned through his own, leaving something molten and bright within James.

But still, the criminal balked at being someone's _something special_. Something treasured, something cherished. He knew himself, and he wasn't that, never to be that. He was dirty; a damned thing cut off from everything else whole and good in the world. Set to lashing out at anything that pretended otherwise. Because he had seen _otherwise_. He knew what happened when he cared, or was cared for in turn. And there was no recovering from the darkness that had settled within him from the first, and last, time this had happened. There was no bright and beckoning light for him at the end, only blood and burning, endless pain. And the hurt was only prolonged when you fought it.

He heard Sherlock's words echo round in his head. _I will not take you like some common whore._ But what if that was who he was…? All he was…? After all, he had started his life as a child whore, and people's life experiences molded who they eventually became. So then, was that what he would become? A whore again, just an older version? He felt like weeping, his denial at the detective's well-meaning words was breaking him. He couldn't take the silence in his head any longer, and so he spoke, seeking answers from someone else when he couldn't find them within.

"What if that's all I am? All I have?" Jim whispered, a world's suffering hanging within his words. And Sherlock saw it, caught it, and healed it. So simply. The taller man merely stared him down and then chuckled.

"You're an idiot, James." The criminal felt vibrations of the laughter roll out from the other man's chest, connected with his own now as the other closed the remaining inches. And the detective managed to fit a hand between them to settle just over Jim's straining heart, his deep voice flowing around them.

"No more pushing. We've all the time in the world...and I'll need it…" he motioned between them with his finger, tapping first his own chest and then back to Jim's, "…to pull you apart." Then he brought the same finger up under the shorter man's chin, leaving the last two buttons of the shirt tail forgotten. "Now then," Sherlock smirked, "I seem to have caught myself a criminal….what shall I do with him?"


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: Hey folks. Hope you enjoy this. I dedicate this chapter's inspiration to Revella, my own personal muse. Don't blame her for any typos or whatnot here, though, as real life has her in its clutches currently, so she couldn't proof this out for me. Oh well. Hopefully I won't disappoint! Let me know what you think. I tried to do a fine balance here of sex, angst, and quasi-fluff. LOL! It's hard to please everyone, because everybody has this preconceived notion of what it would be like for these guys. I can only follow the way I've had my characters develop, though, so please give me a pinch of interpretive leeway, if you could. ;)**

"_Now then," Sherlock smirked, "I seem to have caught myself a criminal….what shall I do with him?" _

Water from the icy rivers of his homeland couldn't have tasted as sweet as the words Jim then stole from Sherlock's mouth. Perhaps the detective had been going to speak further…but no longer. Jim himself could barely breathe. How could anyone, after all these years, understand him so? He had searched his whole life for distractions…and here he had found not just a distraction, but a focal point for his entire being. His final problem fell away into a million grains of glittering sand as Sherlock's fingers resumed their work on the last of the buttons. What problem? He had every answer he would ever need right here in his arms, holding him in turn. It took a while for him to find his voice, but when he did, he remembered the detective's question.

And he answered…..definitively.

"Punish me," Jim gasped against their connected lips. And he felt a knee part his legs, allowing the taller man in closer still. Long artist's fingers slid along under his dress shirt as the last button was freed of its burden and those hands tugged at the plain white t-shirt beneath. The detective's cool touch against his feverish skin sent him into another fit of delicious shivering. Sherlock needed time to pull him apart? He could have it, all of it….all he had left. And he thought his mind might shut down when he heard the other respond to his request for punishment.

"Very well." And Sherlock slid two fingers down and around beneath the line of Jim's trousers at the front, pulling the criminal forward a bit while also flipping the buckle undone. Jim's mind was flashing alarms at him, blaring and urgent, warning him away from this interaction. But he turned them down, shut them off, and deleted them from his awareness, because this was…this was…. _Oh_… He felt the fabric shift and work its way down a few bare inches, just enough, and he was exposed to the detective's touch. The wild-haired man himself carefully disentangled Moriarty's fingers from his clothing, going down on his knees, and causing the criminal's own lower extremities to almost give out again at the sight of it. His breath becoming more ragged by the second, Jim observed every motion with the attention a condemned man gives the guillotine.

Sherlock gently wrapped his hand around the base of Jim's cock, stopping to look back up and be sure they were still okay. Jim's gaze locked with the lust-darkened one of the man on the ground before him. And the criminal recognized a beauty therein that he knew no other would ever know or appreciate; that they alone would always share and understand. And he spoke before thinking, running a hand lightly over curls and down across those angular features, swiping a thumb just above a cheek bone.

"Your eyes are the color of gravestones."

And then a moist heat enveloped the head of Jim's member, shocking him into throwing his head back with enough force to cause a minor concussion. But he didn't notice. He was beyond noticing anything but himself and Sherlock Holmes as the other man's tongue slid around and under, teasing a fire in his belly that had smoldered now for years. It took very little encouragement to fully ignite. Jim's hands found their way to the detective's hair, one holding tight, the other loose, as if he couldn't coordinate them properly. He almost lost all sense of what to do, what was right or wrong. With every passing minute, the man before him changed angles or pace or, or, _something_ else wickedly frustrating but brilliantly sexual. The tempestuous murder being done to his cock by Holmes' sinfully talented tongue was bending him, breaking him…..and _had_ to stop before….

Sherlock must have sensed it as well, as he performed one last devilish maneuver, fully settling the criminal's dick within his throat and then pulling back with a wet pop. Lips swollen from the vigorous activity, he steadied his balance with Jim's hips, and then unhurriedly stood, making sure that every available inch of himself was pulled against the other man as he did. He slid all the way upwards, knowing Jim could now feel just how aroused he himself had become from his little tease as his own burgeoning member made contact and friction against the criminal's thighs.

Upon reaching his full height, Sherlock ducked to claim the other man's mouth once more with his own, allowing Jim to taste a bit of his own pre-cum on the other's tongue. It was just the right kind of wrong, too, and the criminal moaned into the kiss. Jim reached his hand up to the detective's shirt collar, playfully fingering at the top button, and one of the men, maybe both, giggled at the seeming absurdity of their activity. Then James ripped his arm downwards, tearing the shirt in two places and scattering buttons everywhere. The detective grunted and looked at him in playful reproach; but the criminal just shrugged as if to ask, Really? You thought I wouldn't?

So Sherlock reached both arms down under James' backside and lifted him up to hold at waist level. The criminal's own legs reflexively arched around the taller man, and he smiled as his back bumped into the wall, and the detective's mouth found his throat once more, working its way down to his exposed clavicle. He gasped at the feeling. No one touched him! Oh, this was delicious…. He needed more. Much more…and he drug his nails across the other man's back in a plead for it. More more _more_…

He found himself suddenly grasped more tightly, and his back left the wall. His arms clung to the detective's shoulders as they began to move through the doorway and down the hall again, retracing earlier steps. He laughed as they passed one of his agents, sending the man a lascivious smirk. And when they reached his quarters, they discovered the door was shut. So Sherlock set them up against the wall to one side, reaching with one hand for the knob with straining legs beneath him. Jim turned his head to the side to stare into the face of yet another agent, this one positioned on the other side his bedroom door. The criminal ran a hand through those dark curls and pulled the detective's head back down to his neck. And through a haze of raging desire, Jim eyed the agent and mouthed the words, _Leave. Now_. And then he was too preoccupied with Sherlock's mouth to care.

The agent's shift was over quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth.

The door finally gave, and they passed through, Jim releasing his traveling mountain to place his feet on the floor and quickly lock the door behind them. The he turned to face Sherlock with a look of unimpeded heat and complete obsession, striding quickly back over to the taller man and seizing him by the shoulders. He pushed the other back into the bed, the detective almost falling but ultimately ending up merely sitting down fast. His hands clenched the coverlets in expectancy. Jim looked down at him, then gave an odd pirouette to the side, which ended up slipping his own dress shirt all the way off. His trousers still hanging loose about his waist, he gazed at Sherlock, feeling lightning building in his chest; and then shook his head. He almost laughed again.

"The shit you do to me, honey. I can't even…" His head shook side to side briefly, and then the criminal rushed the other man, knocking him back onto the mattress and leaving Jim straddling him from above. Sherlock's hands flew up to settle at the man's waist. The criminal breathed deeply and leaned back to trace a pattern only he could see upon that pale abdomen, contemplating the things he'd dreamt of for so long. He almost came just from the thought of them being made possible, made real. And he reached down to touch himself as he spoke once more, giving a light squeeze. "You really should see yourself." His other hand ran from the taller man's chest to crotch. "So beautiful…" he whispered. Then he looked up to meet the other's eyes, something else coming to rest behind his own, taking both hands and placing them on opposite sides of the man beneath him, and leaning down ever closer. "Can you make me like you, Sherlock? We're already so close…. Can you make me beautiful, too?"

Sherlock thought the words odd; but perhaps not, given the family history of the man before him. Self-worth was definitely not something cultivated within the Moriarty household. And the detective's arms came up around him, pulling him down, down, down, into an embrace. The taller man growled into Jim's neck as he held him firmly.

"Oh, Jim….but you _are_ already. Your mind brings more intrigue and appreciation to my life than any aesthetic value ever could. You're like some fallen angel that I've managed to snare through trickery."

"Demon, more like," snorted James into dark curls. "You're the only one ever on the side of the angels here, my detective." And as if that statement reminded him of something, he sighed, seeming suddenly defeated. "I was never meant for such." His mind rebelled even as his heart grasped at smoke.

_What am I doing? _

_I can't do this. _

_I can't do this._

_Everything I touch, dies_…

_He'll see me for what I am._

_Don't let him…_

Sherlock tightened his grip suddenly, and flipped them, causing Jim's head to spin before he realized that it was now _his_ back to the mattress, pinned. His wrists were held down by the detective's weight, but the smaller man had no fight in him. And Sherlock glared into the criminal's eyes, challenging him, daring him. He could sense the direction of Jim's thoughts, it seemed. Then, he let go the pressure on his wrists, and methodically worked the criminal's trousers and pants the rest of the way down, never breaking eye contact. He noted a slight tensing of musculature as he first began to remove the clothing, though. Fear? Insecurity? Of what? Hmmm….

Jim finished the job for him, agitatedly kicking them off and onto the ground. Then followed the white t-shirt. Here was his unveiling. _Everything_ felt on display, not just his body. _He'll see me for what I am…_ He shut his eyes at what he felt sure would be the last time Sherlock would ever want to have attempted this. How could he have forgotten his shame? It had been so long since he had had to remember this. Deal with this.

Jim's brother had left him with more than just psychological scars…

The body above him stilled, and Jim felt the fear well up. The rejection. The anger. But still he waited. Then he felt a gentle touch along his inner thigh. He knew the course it was traveling. Could predict it instantly. There was a light pink ridge that ran parallel for about eleven inches there. And others…so many others…

"Your brother?" Jim heard asked of him. And he nodded, eyes still closed as the fingers began to trace the many other paths and lines marked upon him like a sickening map of hatred. His past lying in stark contrast to his present. Always there, always waiting to reclaim him. He felt that soft touch pause at a slight indention just above his first two lower ribs. And Sherlock's voice registered once more. "This was…bad." Jim nodded.

"Mother took me to the hospital for that one. The only time I ever got to see a real doctor. My _brother_ had wanted to see if his new knife could reach my heart." His fists tightened on the sheets under them. "It didn't. But it easily reached the first two lobes of my right lung." His eyes opened finally, staring at the detective above him as if challenging him to dispute his next words. "Better she had left me there on the road. She never said it, but it was there. In her eyes."

Sherlock had no idea what to say. The man beneath him was cruel and insane, and a murderer many times over. But also…he was…different… He was the detective's match intellectually, and in many other things as well. And while what they were sharing had to be _so_ wrong on multiple levels, still….. Hadn't he heard once…something about the heart wanting what it wanted, or something…? Maybe that was what the saying had meant? He had thought it innocuous at the time, but it was becoming clearer now. Much so. He wanted this man in his arms. He didn't care about the past or any of his transgressions. They had all led to the creation of the person he now held so tenderly. And when he thought of it that way…he wouldn't change a thing. And he thought that that should probably worry him, but…no. He stroked a hand through Jim's already half-disheveled hair.

"All of this…" Sherlock gestured along the length of Jim's body, "…and all of this," he then tapped the criminal's forehead, "…is what makes you, you." He closed the distance and kissed the other man's temple, cheek, chin, and other cheek in turn. Then he pulled back to look him in the eyes again. "And though the rest of the world may have suffered as a result, I wouldn't change you…not. one. bit."

And Jim was speechless, motionless. Held captive by words he had never thought to hear, most especially not from the man who had uttered them. These scars, his stripes…only one other person had ever seen them. And even she had not understood. She had not made him feel any different for having them. But her eyes…her eyes held pity. And James Moriarty _**hated**_ pity more than anything when it concerned his brother's tortures.

But here…looking up at the man on top of him, he found not pity….no… Sherlock looked down on his abused flesh as if were something to be worshipped. His long artist's fingers ran over the light ridges and indentations that lay scattered about him…exploring… Memorizing…the detective was _memorizing_ him! Committing this to his memory forever. Because it wasn't horrible to him. It wasn't disgusting. And it _wasn't_ to be pitied. No. If anything, Sherlock seemed fascinated as his hands traced over and over the lines marking Jim.

"Your body is like a crime scene…" whispered the detective, awe apparent within that light utterance. "One I could investigate…eternally." His hands alternated light and firm pressure over some few of the markings. "Beautiful. You…are my beautiful nightmare." Sherlock leaned down to hold his face within inches of Jim's own. "And I would dream you every night."

Jim surged up from under the detective and pulled him back down with him, crushing their mouths together with enough force to draw blood. Its metallic tang only added to the delicious fervor with which they seized at each other. Jim had no trouble ridding Sherlock of the garments covering his lower half, and the detective groaned as the last bit of clothing left his body. Never self-conscious, but certainly most eager to remove any and all barriers between them. They slid together perfectly in an embrace that held a world's worth of hurt and comfort, blessing and sin.

Sherlock's skilled hands made their way under and behind to Jim's shoulder blades while the other man's dug furrows along his back. Though the detective was by far the less experienced of the two, being what some would term a virgin, he seemed all the bolder as the sounds that Moriarty made at his points of contact ran through his blood like the sweetest of poisons. Jim, by contrast, was almost incapable of coherency in any form. He saw in Sherlock someone who saw him, _saw_ him, and wasn't afraid. Wasn't disgusted. Didn't run away. Didn't leave. In fact, pulled him closer, ever closer. It was an impossibility made possible by the very man he had thought to kill so long ago.

There would never be another like this. Ever. Jim had loved Seraena, yes. But not like this…not like this. This was electric. It was explosive. It was…heh. It was dangerous…. And he loved it. Reveled in it, in what they had, what they shared. The detective's tongue ran along Jim's mouth once before retreating, and the criminal chased after it, instead nipping the lower lip it hid behind. He felt the smile that returned from that little flirt, and he smiled in turn.

Sherlock slowed a bit, pulling up for air to look Jim in the eye, communicating via an almost telepathic link that the detective had previously thought was only shared with Mycroft. But no, here it was also. Wait for it, wait for it… He continued to stare into those brown eyes until the understanding dawned in them.

"Oh… There." And a lazy gesture was made at the bedside table. The detective gave a quirky look of questioning as he reached across for the sought after item, and Jim merely shrugged. "Prepared for anything." Then he held up a hand in a time honored sign. "I'm like a naughty scout." Which earned him a much-deserved eye roll, his second of the day. Jim reached down to squeeze a pinch on the taller man's buttock. "I only allow insubordination from those who please me."

"Well then…I had better…please you…" came the reply as a trail of kisses began to wend their way down Jim's abdomen. His breath hitched when the other man reached the light beginnings of hair that led down, down, down…. Until suddenly those kisses began to work along his thighs, and Jim realized that Sherlock was tracing his scars by mouth. Heat flared within him at this, and his cock twitched beside the other's head, which earned it a mere ghost of a kiss itself. The detective leaned back with a smug look that reeked of "Look what I can do to you." And Jim hissed in frustration.

The detective's firm clench of the criminal's thighs brought him out of his disappointment, though, and Jim watched as Sherlock almost fell upon him, face to Jim's chest and then sucking hard at one nipple. A sharp gasp split the air as the taller man's tongue teased and flicked, while his grip on Jim's thighs tightened and became more insistent. The man had more self-control than Jim had imagined! As the criminal was almost undone by all of the actions, Sherlock just kept going, teasing and taunting with that wicked mouth. Who could have predicted that that sharp tongue could be so pleasing when put to other uses? But oh, _God_…it was….

The detective then released one thigh and reached to the side for the fallen tube, applying a bit to himself to rid the excess and then reaching for Jim. He may not be an experienced partner, but he had seen enough internet trash videos to have grasped that preparation was something that made these things somewhat more well-tolerated for the receiving party. However, he was halted by the criminal's hand, and a sharp look that told him to just stop.

"No, Sherlock." The criminal's voice was…indescribably dark. "I want it to hurt. I want it to _burn_ me. I want _you_ to burn me." And though the detective had no inclination towards causing pain to the other, the accented words left him no doubt as to their veracity. This was something that would take no arguments to the contrary. It was something needed…something…begged for. And so he obliged, but not quite in the violent manner that Jim was expecting.

The detective applied the lubricant the rest of the way to himself and then crawled slowly up to the other man's eye line, locking gazes as he calmly reached down and pushed Jim's legs apart a bit more and positioned himself accordingly. Once ready, Sherlock leaned down further and softly kissed his mortal enemy.

"If we are to burn tonight, then we should do so together." Then he resumed the kiss, and he pushed in…..ever, so, slowly.

James remained silent beneath him, eyes clenched shut as he found himself filled with the other man's presence even stronger than before. Was this what they meant all those times when he had heard fools utter such nonsense about finding completion and "being whole?" It must be. He felt himself reflexively start to breathe again once Sherlock stopped his forward motion deep within him. The kiss ended and the detective glided the tip of his nose over Jim's cheek, asking permission to continue. And Jim answered with no hesitation this time.

"Yes. God, yes."

And Sherlock moved within him. That was all Jim could think of to describe it. Sherlock Holmes had invaded him in every way a human could to another. And if he ever really considered it, he might become quite frightened at the prospect of it. So much power over him was held by this man above him. It would take so little to end him. End their game, if this even still counted as a game? He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Life itself was a game to James Moriarty. People, things, etc…all were just pieces on a board to him…except this… This made new rules. Changed the game. Nothing had ever changed the game before…

Sherlock held the criminal tightly as he found a steady rhythm that they both seemed able to handle with ease. The other man's breathing told him all he needed to know about the mindset of its owner. This man was truly defeated here; though, the detective was far from unaffected. His senses were aflame, and the hot, tight heat surrounding him had him biting back words that he had never thought to express before. It was…exhilarating. Intoxicating. Sweat had begun to run down his body…both their bodies. It caused their already feverish skin to slide along each other with a new urgency.

Sherlock smoothed back a sweat-slicked lock of Jim's hair that had fallen across his equally perspiring brow. God, the sight of the man! Had he no idea how stimulating, how intriguing, he was? It was almost inconceivable! But no. There had been no guile in Moriarty's eyes during this entire experience. Jim hated himself, truly hated himself. And it seemed that his genius mind could find no better outlet to lash out at than the world in general. That kind of darkness…it would never heal. Not completely. The twisted core would always be there, growing new roots. And suddenly, the detective felt a thrum of something hot and _close_ blister through him. _Oh_….

Jim found himself suddenly pulled up awkwardly onto the detective's lap, and the taller man set one foot to the floor. And then the other. Oh God, what was he doing? And the criminal felt himself pulled up with Sherlock in an ungainly crouch that straightened and moved to the wall beside the mattress, where Jim's back smacked into it, causing the lamp on the bedside table to fall over and crash to the floor. It went unnoticed by the pair, who were now caught up in the feeling up Sherlock slamming up and into Jim as he pinned him against the wall.

Jim's mouth hung open, and he breathed hard and fast, never enough air to be sufficient for his needs. His back was pressed repetitively into the smooth surface behind him, as he sucked along the detective's neck, leaving a trail that might be very visible tomorrow. His fingers pulled hard at the taller man's backside, squeezing almost painfully and pulling the other man deeper and deeper still. He yelled out at the glorious sensations washing through him, unable to stifle the eruption. But so, too, did the detective who fucked him so vigorously call out.

Then Jim changed tactics, placing his hands behind him against the wall and pushing away, causing Sherlock to stumble. Then the detective growled and forced them back to the wall, this time a few feet to the side of where they had been. Jim's hands flung out as he crashed against the cool paint. And his fingers tangled into fabric from the curtains. Another hard thrust from Sherlock, and Jim accidentally yanked the curtains and rod down next to them. He would have laughed, but he felt. too. damn. _good_. He bit at the other man's throat, rasping his name once, twice, and then lost it as the third thrust came. He couldn't even speak his own name anymore, much less someone else's.

The detective sensed how close he was bringing the other, and himself as well. His eyes briefly searched and found a writing desk in the chamber, and he carried his lover over to it at once, laying him back and down onto it. Case files of Jim's own, foreign documents, and murder scene photos used as proof of a job well done were scattered and smashed as their tryst ended up on top of them all. Sherlock barely noticed a photo of the body of a man with a bullet hole in the right chest wall lying next to his hand as he pumped harder and harder into the criminal, becoming uncoordinated in the process of his own unraveling.

Jim attempted to reach up and grasp at something, anything, to keep a slight hold on reality, but all he managed was to send his laptop hurtling over the edge to the ground. No matter. Always a backup. He'd have a new one in the morning. His hands returned to their quest for flesh and found the taller man's chest to be adequate territory, sliding them over the sweat slick surface. He continued to breathe, at least he thought he did, and then gave a sharp noise of surprise when Sherlock changed angles on him.

The detective was going. Any time now. And he could see Jim was there, too. Just a little more then… The taller man reached down and grasped the straining cock that was throbbing against his belly and began to torture it with timed strokes that had the criminal clawing at him, moaning, and saying things in Irish that Sherlock was quite sure weren't even real curse words. He leaned in and licked the sinful words from those lips, couched on a mouth that had ordered murders of the blackest sort. Hands that had committed nearly every sin flew along the lines of his body, and Moriarty writhed with him.

One minute, they fought the climb into ecstasy…and then, like a happy accident, they fell over, together. A million and one stars couldn't have equaled the brilliant display of energy that released between them. There was no world existent except their own for quite some length of time as they plunged in tandem. Moriarty's hot cum splashed along their close-pressed bodies, smearing as they still moved together in the aftereffects. Sherlock's own seed spilled inside of the criminal's body, giving him the odd feel that a part of him would always be there inside the other.

And he was right…. Just not in the more literal sense of the meaning. Jim both cursed and praised this thing they had done together. More beautiful than any job he had ever created or completed. More captivating than any mathematical or scientific theory. And far, far more addictive than any substance that had ever been sold from the branches of his network. Sherlock Holmes had infected him, body, mind…heart? If he still was possessed of one, then surely. But sometimes, even he still couldn't tell. Though panting there with the detective collapsed against him, he could almost believe in those things. Almost see that he could have them, that he deserved them.

But no.

He didn't.

And _this_…he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling…this was forbidden him. Absolutely. Every gentle tenderness done him here tonight was to be erased. Had to be. Else everything yet to come would only be made all the more difficult. So… He sighed and closed his eyes tightly, curling his fingers into the other's skin. He couldn't do it. Couldn't erase it. Couldn't… Or wouldn't? It hardly mattered. Apparently, his mind didn't care about the suffering of what was left of his heart. Damn.

Then he felt the detective's grip shift on him, scooping him back up into the other's arms to carry back to the bed. Jim might have cried out at the shock of Sherlock finally sliding out of him, but he was still so lost in the inundation of aftershocks that he couldn't figure how to set the sound free. And he shortly after felt his back hit the covers of the mattress, the detective leaving for just a short venture into a closet and re-emerging with cloths. He had already made a quick job of wiping himself down, and he then set to Jim's defenseless body. It was an altogether odd, but not totally displeasing, thing to have someone else do for you like this.

The criminal then watched the other man crawl in bed next to him, drawing Jim into his arms; and he returned the embrace, placing his head on the pale expanse of chest. Both were lost in thought apparently. The usually loquacious detective was silent. Jim couldn't see his eyes, but he could almost feel the other's mind working round and round, trying to make sense of the senseless.

Sherlock had never experienced this level of attachment to another before, and it…frightened him. Excited him. He wanted to explore every bit of it. Run down every available piece of information he had garnered. It was as if he had come upon mankind's greatest experiment and had been given his choice of research method. There was nothing more important to him at this moment in time than discovering more about this man he held in his arms now. He kissed the criminal's hair several times, slowly, as he rolled these thoughts over and over in his head. He didn't want to speak of it just yet, it was still too soon, too sacred to be broken by the harsh sound of a human voice. And so he remained silent, just feeling…holding. And he began to drift off in short order with his thoughts. _Post-coital drowsiness_, he brought up from his limited sexual information repertoire. _Almost immediate onset of fatigue and the need to rest. Read about it once for the case with the lady of the ugly suits, she had only_…_one real chance_…_at an alibi_...

He trailed off as he drifted. Sometimes resurfacing to his contemplations of Jim, and other times left him touching on almost any topic possible. One such surfacing had him wondering about human emotions. One in particular. Some would argue it the most complex of them all. The detective recognized certain signs and symptoms of the particular ailment, and he sized it up clinically. Being generally accepted as true by him, he held love and hate to be one and the same. And he could see evidence of one or the other throughout he and Moriarty's interactions since day one. _Ah, but signs…symptoms…_ He pondered drowsily. Generally the subject would feel warm and comfortable. A certain lightheadedness was not uncommon. And then there was the strong sense of loyalty and the desire to be together, always. His eyes were getting heavier, mind slowing.

Jim felt warm and comfortable. And yet, he also had a certain giddiness, perhaps likened unto being lightheaded. And as he ran a hand smoothly over the rise of Sherlock's hip, he felt a fiercely loyal, almost possessive, emotion seize him. And as he gazed at the rising and falling chest before him, he knew he would give anything for them to be together, always. Though no amount of wishing could make it true, still, there it was. He could sense the other man's thought patterns as if they were his own. Jim felt Sherlock's grip loosen slightly as the other man began to drift off, and he felt the detective's breath move against his skin as the baritone rolled after it.

"Jim?" Silence greeted the detective, because the criminal anticipated the following words. "Jim…I've been thinking. Considering…paths, and choices…" There was a pause and a rustling of fabric as the detective pulled the coverlets a bit higher and tighter around them. "And, I think…after much consideration…..I think I could be…that is….that maybe..I lo…"

A finger was pressed up quickly over Sherlock's lips, effectively silencing the speech flowing from it. Jim closed his eyes. Sometimes he wished he weren't so good at reading people, especially this man. A solitary tear made its way down his cheek, out of the taller man's line of sight. Jim Moriarty did not cry. Had _not_ cried since he was a very small child. He knew the detective probably had deduced this about him, and so he was glad the small tear went unheeded. Or did it? He had to wonder about the other man's knack for simply knowing things…so much like his own. He wriggled closer in to the detective, keeping his hand firmly where it was until the other's breathing changed. _Love? Me?_ He almost shook. _I've stolen this. Through drugs and…torture…and deception. All of this could be false. Based on the lies I've woven_. He choked on his own thoughts. Running a hand down Sherlock's back, he thought, _And the only way to know_….. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, body tensing. _Love_? The criminal wrapped his arms tighter still, and whispered against the slumbering detective's chest.

"No….you don't."


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N: So this chapter is a pinnacle, of sorts. And thank God I tricked Revella into stepping away from her own works in order to proof it a bit for me. This chapter felt like it was never going to finish itself. There was just too much to convey. So I chose to omit some things, hopefully to place in later chapters. I am truly grateful for every comment I get. And any time someone wants to know something specific, please keep messaging me. I really don't mind. It just gives me an opportunity to talk even more about my favorite pastime! This chapter has a lot of feels for me, and I hope for you, too. If you don't at least **_**think**_** about shedding a tear or two, then dammit I'm not doing my job, and I need to know! LOL! All of the characters will be altered in a major way from the events that transpire in these 9000 words to follow, though I'm not finished with this first book yet, so hang on. Still **_**many**_** chapters to go! Tragedy abounds, so pull out the tissues here… **

Strange. Jim was strange today. Their day. Sherlock had awoken on the day of their great Museum heist to a lonely and cold bed. So different from the mornings of the previous week. And so unexpected, after last night. He had wandered the halls until coming upon the other man, already dressed impeccably, as if to make an impression on their enemies. Keeping up appearances. The criminal seemed to have chosen all shades of gray for the day's activity, and Sherlock wondered if Jim quite saw the irony of the color scheme inherent in the three piece suit. The only thing to stand out was his choice of tie, a deep crimson red. The devil himself couldn't have looked better in the same outfit. Jim had been absorbed in his computer work for the time being, and Sherlock had used that opportunity to shower and make ready himself. He chose somber for this day, all black. Shirt, jacket, trousers, shoes, socks….but a smooth, dark silver tie. It made his eyes seem even more otherworldly in complement.

Outwardly calm, inside his mind spun on its axis. Tilted. Reversed. Toppled. He couldn't resolve the revelations that last night had brought to his awareness; and, he thought, to the other man as well. He had anticipated a sort of oddity between them afterwards, or maybe even a sort-of closeness. _Something_. But he certainly hadn't expected to be met by this distracted, hyper, almost childlike and gleeful man that Jim appeared to be today. Quickly vacillating between action and immobility. It was…like the _old_ Jim. The one before all of "this" had happened between them. Not that the criminal seemed oblivious to their new status, but just…he was strange.

And Jim's reversion to his more classic criminal exterior had caused further introspection to occur within the detective himself. After all, the job this day would potentially harm many people. People he knew and had once cared about. Still cared about? He was unsure how exactly he felt about this. When he thought of the day's events and who might be attending from the opposing side of the law…..he shuddered suddenly. This wasn't right. Something wasn't right.

He stood still and dredged deep, searching, looking, digging. Why was this not right? Lestrade would be there. What had he ever done to Sherlock but given him cases to occupy his mind, keep him out of trouble? And Anderson and Donovan were certainly annoyances, but had they ever really done much of anything to earn what would probably befall them this day? And Mycroft….surely he would become involved by this point as well? _Brother dear_… Sherlock growled. They may despise each other nowadays, but there was a time, long ago, when a frightened little boy was often comforted by his older brother's distractions and stories of pirates….

Wrong. This was wrong. He knew it. Felt it. But also…he couldn't find it in himself to care. His emotive response was just….empty. Blank. Missing…

Why didn't he care? He groaned in frustration at finding no solutions. His brow furrowed, and his eyes clenched shut as he searched ever deeper through his mental hallways and store rooms. Somewhere. It was here somewhere... It had to be.

He had cared once. He was _sure_ of it. In the beginning of his time here with Jim, he had not been able to clearly picture much of his past. Now, though clear, they felt…wrong, awkward…altered… What had changed? Wait… He blinked. What was that? He had seen something, for just a second. There and gone. Something….some kind of …_something_….dammit. Where…? Yes, there it was! A signal, a code, a word… A way of passing on notice of danger to come, yes, but also a symbol of friendship and camaraderie. He had it! But where had it come from? He rolled the words over in his head:

_Vatican Cameo_….

What an odd combination to make. But the words gave him a feeling of knowing right from wrong. A feeling of unending and steadfast loyalty. How had that come about? And when had he ever used it before? He frowned as he tried in vain to recover the memory, but it was like trying to catch wet glass- sharp and slick, and ultimately all he did was hurt himself trying. Shit. Well. The origin really didn't matter, he supposed, as long as it got the result he wanted.

But what _did_ he want?

Damn! It was frustratingly horrid to fight his own memories! All he could figure was that it must have been Lestrade whom he had shared it with. Who else would he ever need to give a code for danger like this to? And now, since Lestrade had been determined by him to not be a threat, he set to a new resolve. He wouldn't go against Jim….he could never do that again, he reasoned. That also felt wrong. But, it didn't mean he couldn't work to mitigate damages to those chosen few. Yes. He could do that. And he would. He walked over to a desk in the room he had paused in and pulled out a marker. His mind buzzed as he brought it to one hand, and then the other. _Yes_.

XXX

When he found the criminal again, the other man was talking animatedly to the agent Sherlock had seen most frequently on jobs of this magnitude. _Sebastian? Yes. Definitely Sebastian. Possibly Steve, but probably Sebastian._ Jim turned away from the other man when the detective entered the room, smiling widely. Others (mainly those who were not named Sherlock Holmes) would have termed the grin deranged.

"Sebastian was just telling me that everything is under way." His voice dropped a bit. "Are you ready? Time for the fun!"

Sherlock first applauded his own ability to remember the agent's name _mostly_ correctly when heard it from the criminal's own lips. Then he moved forward to stand almost touching the shorter man, but he didn't reach out. The psychotic aura that Jim exuded this day was distancing him a bit. Not worrying, just curious.

"I should hope so," Sherlock began, "We already recovered the artifact _days_ ago from the idiot whose house you blew up, though it took long enough. And from then, we've just been…what do you criminals call it? Biding our time? Awaiting opportunity?" And Moriarty shook a finger at him.

"Ah ah," he chastened. "Wasn't me. Those were _your_ pyrotechnics. And don't be so quick to say 'you' criminals, honey. You're just as culpable as I…." The detective shrugged at the truth thrown at him. "Still, we tortured the fool long enough that I truly thought initially that maybe he had just invented the storage place he had given us."

"Torture is often an unreliable means to get results," agreed the detective. There was a heavy pause before the response came, full of meaning that he couldn't quite glean.

"Yes…..it can be…" agreed Moriarty, something dark moving within his eyes as he stared across at Sherlock. The he spun back round to Sebastian, who merely stood observing their exchange, and waved his hands in a 'shooing' fashion. "Well, off you pop! Do make sure you have the chopper well-fueled. Sources _say_ they're bringing almost everything for us. I suppose I should feel flattered. Even big brother Holmes is going to be there…" Jim clapped his hands lightly. "But, while I'm sure he'd love to bring the entire army down around us, he could hardly justify that _just_ for the sake of rescuing his little brother. Therefore, I am expecting to be met with heavy ground forces and next to nothing in way of air coverage."

Sherlock looked on impassively, still unsure of how he felt about the whole affair. He was excited, and thrilled, to be a part of such an intriguing game, but…something was…wrong…. He looked at the back of his hands, specifically at the markings he had placed there earlier. He flexed his fingers studiously. _Wrong_.

XXX

John pulled the vest around his chest, securing its bullet-stopping power around himself. He looked to Greg, who was doing the same. Today was it. Today, they would have Sherlock back. He had to believe that. Only…this was Jim Moriarty. And John couldn't help but accept the reality of just how brilliant the man was, no matter how little sanity he might possess. And with Sherlock possibly helping him….it didn't bear thinking about. Still, they had had two weeks to prepare for this. They had people inside the museum, posing as staff. They had officers on the ground, ready to respond from a distance of about 100-140 meters. They had snipers set to be covering from every available surrounding rooftop as part of the government's contribution to this. Mycroft would be air bound in a helicopter to monitor things from the aerial perspective. And they had all agreed that the British Government operative would also be the one to lead the entire operation, offering a central point of control, so that they didn't all end up getting in each other's way and could function in a more coordinated manner.

John glanced at the clock. A quarter to two. Their source had said that Moriarty's hit was to go down around 3pm. They had plenty of time. Everyone else was already en route and setting up last minute plans as unobtrusively as possible. Perfect. It had to be…perfect. Air tight. He sighed, trying to expel all of his stress and worry. Greg looked up at him.

"Got it, mate? Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." A great sigh escaped him still, though. "And you know something? All my time in Afghanistan….I never felt like this." His eyes searched those of the Detective Inspector.

"It _is_ a different perspective on the civilian side of things, I guess. More pressure to prevent collateral damage and all," Lestrade offered.

"Yeah, I guess." And Greg gave him an odd look, but John shrugged it off, saying, "Let's just…get this bastard good, yeah?" And he grabbed his gun, shoving it down his back pocket, and slung his jacket over his shoulders before heading for the door. DI Lestrade followed in his wake, shaking his head.

Greg thought of Mycroft, already taken to the air a few miles away. He thought hard of the man's ominous words to him all those weeks ago. That he would take the shot to bring down Moriarty…even at the expense of his own brother's life. Something cold and dark resided within those Holmes brothers for the elder to be so callous. But then...wasn't that potential why they were in this mess in the first place?

XXX

Jim stepped up and through a trapdoor, long thought to be useless, in the floor of the main storage area of the British Museum, Sherlock following closely behind. He did _so_ hope that the Yard would be out in force. He'd be insulted if they weren't. He glanced at his watch. It was ten til 3, and his men were already quietly taking out the police officers who thought they were so well hidden amongst the staff. And the four snipers on the museum roof? Ha. They were his _own_ men. Bought and paid for. They would miss every shot. _Silly coppers, crime is for crooks_… He waltzed in, practically thrumming with an overflow of enthusiasm to get on with the job. This was to be the unequivocal statement of their solidarity of purpose. His eyes raked over the man beside him, noting that Sherlock still carried the small package in his arms. The detective set it on the nearest desk, stopping to look around and get his bearings as he pulled up the mental map he had made earlier.

"Server room should be just a ways down the hall," he smiled at Jim as he finished, and then imitated the other man's soft Irish accent, "No rush…"

The criminal turned to the taller man suddenly and crossed the short distance between them, lightly setting one hand on the detective's hip. He stood there for a moment, just studying the other's features, almost as if he still probed for a faltering of the detective's resolve. But that wasn't his intention at all… Jim stared…just to stare. He enjoyed the view. But his own countenance was always so laced with venom that no one had ever been able to interpret this as such. But Sherlock could... The criminal tilted his head after a few moments, coming back to earth and all of its frailties as he spoke.

"Why don't you go ahead and get started down there? I'll be along shortly once I'm sure everyone is in place. Then we'll shut this place down and make one hell of an entrance…or exit, rather."

XXX

Mycroft Holmes hovered in the air approximately one mile from the site of the Museum. They were slowly progressing forward as the time ticked away. He needed to be about one quarter mile or so away when it began, hanging just out of the line of sight. They had already predicted the path which Moriarty's own escape craft would approach and leave from, so he considered himself relatively safe from being noticed (though he doubted it would matter to the master criminal anyway). He was present in a surveillance and tactical lead capacity mostly, not to engage with any of the enemy officially. Unless the opportunity presented itself.

He glanced at his assistant, Anthea, who piloted the helicopter's controls currently. Multitalented, she was. He honestly couldn't ask for more in an assistant. Skilled in physical combat, tactical planning, and able to operate several types of armed forces heavy machinery, she was often even able to anticipate his needs. She was the only person he would ever choose to have his back during such a sensitive operation as this. His own resolve had been set weeks ago, when he had recognized the dark thing that Sherlock seemed to be opening up to. It was horrifying, the potential that his brother would have if ever he truly let go of all moral codes. And though it would likely kill him inside…Mycroft prepared himself for the worst choice to be made of his life. It sickened the still and silent heart that beat somewhere hidden within him. He had never thought to have to do this…never again…

XXX

John and Greg arrived at their destination with about twenty minutes to spare. They were briefed on the set up, and everything seeming to be in control and going as planned. Which actually made John more nervous than anything. Nothing was _ever_ perfect with these kinds of operations. Though, Greg took it as reassuring. John knew they had radio links to every unit placed around the museum, CCTV feeds, security camera footage inside the building itself, and the addition of several extra surveillance cams that had been installed over the prep weeks located in key positions. The room they occupied was located in a building just across from the museum itself, the best of the surrounding vantage points, and was filled with screens showing every possible angle and detail of the surveyed space possible. All available computer systems analysts had been gathered into a small space on one side of the gargantuan room, senior agents all and with many decades of experience shared between them. Any of Moriarty's usual tomfoolery with hacking should be headed off easily enough. He hoped.

Surely there was nothing else to be done? And no way to evade their extensive plans for the apprehension and arrest of James Moriarty? At least, John couldn't think of any. Which _still_ wasn't comforting. He took slight reassurance in the fact that they had never before been able to plan ahead for a specific crime being committed by the madman. And here they'd had _two_ _weeks_! It had to be enough. Yes. For Sherlock…it _had_ to be enough….

XXX

Jim crouched down by the multiple ports available to him through the museum's supposed top notch secured servers. Heh. They just weren't used to his class of criminalization. Was that a word? Well, it was now if not. He moved a few wires around, inserted two different USB drives, and then accessed a third port with his own laptop. He grinned back at the detective, who stood stone still and observing. His eyes caught for a moment on the back of the detective's right hand, and some markings thereon. Jim knew the object of his affections was an odd bird, though, so he dismissed the letterings as some part of the other man's usual quirkiness for now. The letters were written across the taller man's knuckles, from the pinky end of the hand to the index side, spelling out TCHAJM. But he let the thought flow out of his mind for now as he set back to work.

Sherlock had seen James notice the writing, and subsequently dismiss it, so he moved his hand to a less visible place, the other having been contained within his pocket during the criminal's stare. The left's dorsal surface read out an equally gibberish set of letters: XVSAWT. They both meant something to him, but he had made sure that the criminal would never be able to discern it. At least, not this day. And that was all he needed anyway. It would be gone before the other man ever had a chance to fully examine it.

James motioned for him to approach, and he did, coming to stand just behind Jim's right shoulder as they had agreed upon. He glanced up and behind to his left at the security camera that should have already alerted NSY as to their whereabouts within the building. But the police wouldn't move until they were sure of what they were doing there. Because, as of yet, they hadn't actually done anything threatening. And there was never any solid information or evidence on James Moriarty, so they needed to wait until the pair had committed some crime or another to move in. And also, they were just plain scared. Jim did that to people.

Sherlock checked his position with the security camera to his rear once more before settling into place. Before him, the criminal made a few minor adjustments to the angle of the laptop's webcam, sat back, and with a click of the mouse….let the show begin.

XXX

The lights in the museum dimmed, leaving only the emergency lighting functioning. People slowly came to a stop in curiosity, waiting to see if the generators would kick back so that they could continue on their way. But then security began motioning for people to leave. An announcement over the intercom pleaded the same case: everyone was to leave the grounds. There had been a credible threat called in, and they needed everyone to evacuate as calmly and quickly as possible while it was investigated. And as the throng exited the building, several of the crowd saw what they thought was proof of this threat in the form of several dozen officers of the law stationed outside of the front entrance that ran along Great Russell Street, all at a minimum safe distance of 50-100 meters or behind solid structures.

The public exodus was accomplished very efficiently, and within about 10 minutes, the building was fairly cleared out, being swept from top to bottom by Moriarty's men. The officers stood by for now, awaiting orders, and also hoping that all civilians would be safely out of the way when the madman decided to do whatever it was he had planned this time around.

The exiting crowd thinned, trickled, ended. And as the members of the force crouched, wary, behind shields and car doors alike, the first strains of a melody began to seep out of the museum doors. Classical. And if anyone had an ear for music, then they would be able to label it as Mozart's Lacrimosa. The beautiful notes floated through the doorway and hung suspended in the empty corridors within. And in the museum's server room, the webcam clicked on, the little red light notifying its actors of their timing.

XXX

John and Lestrade stood in as calm a manner as they could manage when informed that people had begun to file out of the museum; and then they watched through the security cams as the patrons were herded out. Each was made sick in turn that _it_ was beginning. Though they knew it would happen, having the confirmation now upon them was…chilling. And so they watched.

This was a good thing, though. Less civilians in the way. And when the music started, they knew… They knew the game had begun. And they waited for the first move to be made, their eyes trained on the camera that offered a view into the museum's server room. Sherlock and Jim Moriarty stood there in front of a laptop, presumably to send a video, if the screen of their computer was anything to go by. There was no audio to accompany the feed, and so the DI and ex-soldier watched in eerie silence as the two geniuses calmly discussed something between themselves. There was nothing of any interest on the other surveillance screens with them in the recon room, although other eyes were assigned to keep tabs on the feeds anyway.

The make-shift tactical operations center was silent as everyone watched for the last pin to drop, the first chess piece to be positioned. They saw Moriarty reach out his hand and click with the mouse pad on the laptop, Sherlock blank behind him.

All doors to the museum locked. All auxiliary power units failed, except the ones immediately surrounding the server room, leaving the rest of the building in total darkness. The majority of the internal camera feeds to the police were cut off as well. Everything but those positioned and powered within the grid of the server room, that is. And the criminal's eyes closed as he clicked again and brought up the direct feed, arresting the screen of every computer in the operations center, which now suddenly showed his peaceful expression beaming back at them all, eyelids closed.

All officers in the room watched as Jim Moriarty finally made his move.

Deceptively honest brown eyes opened to gaze in maniacal glee at the webcam, with everyone in the room feeling as though he was looking directly through them. Jim tilted his head to the left, as if stretching, and turned his eyes to the far right, as if looking back at the detective standing on that side, though it was more to draw the eye of the viewer to the fact that Sherlock was still with him. Prat. Then those murderous orbs turned back to the screen, a slight smile alighting his sinful features, and John felt a shiver run down his spine at the soulless expression thereon. This man was the most dangerous thing the ex-soldier had ever encountered. And his best friend stood with him….. But did he truly stand _with_ him?

"Hullo," the cool Irish tones began. "I see you all showed up to play our little game." A larger smile. "Well, I hate to disappoint, but I really don't think you all are going to enjoy the little show I have planned here for the day." Then his expression shifted to surprise. "But wait! Before we start…." He turned back to Sherlock, who handed him a box from a table to their right and promptly overturned into Jim's palm. "Ah, yes. I come bearing gifts. Do you know what this is?" He held up the piece. "This is the Orencia Diamond. Late 1300's they believe. Given as a gift to some prince or another. The details won't really matter to you." He tossed the golf ball sized stone into the air and caught it, its facets winking and sparkling in the light as it spun down. "It used to be on exhibit here. Well, actually it still is. At least, a very good _copy_ is. Check with the museum staff, and they'll confirm it was stolen about seven months ago. The _reason_ it has not been reported is so that they wouldn't anger the family who donated it for display."

Lestrade motioned to some of his men on the side to get on top of confirming whatever the madman was saying. He for sure didn't want to caught flatfooted with this man, whatever the reasoning for this strange discussion. And as he did directed his team, Moriarty continued, and the DI's gaze returned.

But John had eyes only for Sherlock. Something was just never _right_ when he looked at the detective anymore. From that first polaroid they had received of the dark haired man sitting at the breakfast table, to the recordings of his interactions at the car dealership, he was always "off." He had the look of someone who was always preoccupied with something else. Like he was constantly trying to remember a fact or recall how to do a certain task. And now was no different. He even stood differently from the man John had thought he knew. _Look at that_…. _He never folded his hands behind his head like that_. It was too informal a stance for the often formal seeming Sherlock Holmes. The doctor was so caught up in observing the taller form that he barely heard the other words Moriarty was explaining.

"Yes, stolen ladies and gents! And here we are, they unlikely duo, returning it to its rightful place." The criminal paused for effect, giving everyone in NSY time to process the oddity of what he had just said. Returning it? "I happened to, ahem, apprehend a certain _criminal_ at large the other week by the name of Hugo Baltini. Do look him up. I'll even give you intermission. You lot always have trust issues." The screen went dark and began the old Windows system screen saver of stars flying towards the viewer.

Lestrade turned to his aides and fellow officers, hands open as if to ask "Well?" And they all began researching, until one finally found it about thirty seconds later and informed him of the named man's criminal background. Extensive. Baltini was wanted in three separate countries for theft of anything from jewelry to human trafficking. At large for greater than thirteen years. Considered very dangerous, with a mob to back him up. John processed the information as he heard it flying at the DI. _So, this Baltini person is another at large "super-criminal" type_? And now Jim had him, too? Great. The screen feed came back up a few seconds later.

"My sources say that you've been able to ascertain the man's background? Good, that's good. Then you'll admit that he was, in fact, a very bad man?" A laugh followed this, as if he saw the irony in his statement. "Yes, well, then…. Sherlock and I, we encountered him during a certain sensitive operation of our own…." His smile deepened in malice as he finished. "Believe me, he will no longer be an issue to the good officers of New Scotland Yard."

Everyone in the recon room stared at the screen in confusion. What? Moriarty had _killed_ the other man then? Baltini? To what purpose? They waited expectantly, sure that this couldn't be all of the information the man on the screen would feed them. And they were right. Jim's face lightened somewhat after his last declaration, and he smiled wistfully back at Sherlock before turning to face the screen once more.

"Yes. We helped you. Can you imagine?" He laughed loudly, and most likely in the most annoying manner as he could manage. At least, that was how John interpreted it. "We didn't really _need_ the diamond…but it gave us such a _wonderful_ idea for our introduction as business partners that we just _had_ to thank you somehow. And now, I'll just leave this present here…" he placed the diamond on the table top and made as if to stand, "…and we'll just be going." The entire room of officers held their breath. It couldn't be this easy. "You know…" Jim stopped and sat back down. "It can't be that easy…" He chuckled, "But you already knew that."

He slammed his fists down on the table to either side of the laptop suddenly, startling all who watched. "You all need lesson, I think." Then he paused and blinked slowly, realizing his pronoun error. "_We_ think." His unsettling black-eyed gaze resettled on the camera lens in the laptop's screen as he whispered, "So we've got a surprise for you!" The criminal reached out his hands and lifted the laptop with him as he stood.

XXX

"What's that?" John asked suddenly, peering at one of the monitor's that viewed the server room from the rear. Its screen was occupied mostly by Sherlock's tall and dark form. The doctor walked closer to get a better view.

"What's that, mate?" Lestrade asked, having only half registered what the other man had asked.

"That," John pointed to Sherlock's head, upon which his hands were resting as if he had leaned back and cradled them around it, giving a full view of the dorsal surfaces of them.

The DI came around from where he was watching the laptop cam feed from Moriarty and stood in front of the screen in question. The tech assigned to this monitor backed up and made room for them. The ex-soldier touched the area of the screen he was most concerned with, where the detective's hands rested, and Greg examined it with him.

"Looks like…" the DI trailed off. "I dunno. Maybe some kind of writing? Did Sherlock have tattoos on the backs of his hands?" John shook his head in the negative. On the screen, the detective and Moriarty moved to leave the room, bringing the laptop with them so as to keep the feed going while they walked. "Then what the…?" The doctor turned away from Lestrade.

"Can you rewind that and zoom in on his hands?" he asked the tech, who then set to pulling the image up clearer and more focused.

They both turned their attention briefly back to the occurrences on the laptop feed, where the view bounced while Jim walked and held the computer one-handed, chatting amiably to them as the taller man accompanied him.

XXX

"I think you're all going to like the surprise I have in store for you…oh, or maybe not…we'll see. Not robbery…no no no. Too dull. _Easy_. No. I have a bit more…flare, shall we say?" Jim finished speaking and glanced back at Sherlock with a smirk. "And I even had _help_ this time!" Sherlock's face was almost blank, but those with a quick eye could note the small reflection of a grin upon his lips also. This alone pulled the last of the hope from the watchers' hearts.

The two men didn't walk far before they came to the front doors, and Jim halted abruptly. He passed the laptop to Sherlock, who then turned its camera to face the criminal as the other man spoke.

"I'm coming out now, boys! Unarmed…. Oh, except for this…" And Jim reached into his pocket to reveal a deadman's switch. "I don't have to tell you what this is, but….you don't know what it's connected to. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. And if it's nothing, then you should also be aware that I have orders for many many bad explodey type things to occur should you take your mark on either of us." He paused, finger to chin. "Hmmmm…. Guess that means you better not shoot?" He shrugged, sounding bored. "Your choice…. Also, you never know what _else_ I might have on me…." The hand holding the switch came round to fill the viewing screen as he activated it. "Now, then….let's play!" He flicked sunglasses out of his pocket with his free hand and placed them on his face, then pushed the doors open just as Sherlock tossed the computer aside, effectively ending its viewpoint.

XXX

"I've got it," the tech cried out, startling John and Greg. "There's two different views here," the man said. "There's this one, where there's more letters," he pointed to one screen, "and then there's this one, with fewer letters when his fingers cover some of the others." They both huddled in front of the screens with their enhanced views of the back of Sherlock's hands. John whispered the letters out loud. One set for each hand. He read the one with all of the letters first.

XVSAWT

TCHAJM

Then he looked to the screen beside it where Sherlock's interlaced fingers had covered half of the letters. In fact, they had managed to easily cover _every other letter_, revealing an entirely new meaning. And John's breath caught...

VAT

CAM

…

…

…

_No_. Could it be? _Vatican Cameo_…_but, but_… His eyes were wild, and Lestrade saw them. The ex-soldier's mind raced as he considered the implications of this. His eyes darted back over to the monitors now covering James and Sherlock as they exited the building and came to stand some distance in front of it. Then he looked back to Lestrade, and in his heart, he knew what the message meant.

"We have to go. Now." And John's harshly whispered words shocked the DI.

"What? Why? What're those letters for? Calm down a sec, and tell me something!"

"No. No time. It's a code. For me and Sherlock. _Danger_. Imminent violence. We have to get _out of here_!" His eyes flicked once more to the ongoing drama down in front of the museum, to the switch held in Moriarty's fist, and his heart dropped. "There's no time! He _knows_!" And John grabbed Lestrade's arm and began to pull him towards the door.

XXX

All was deadly silent in the immediate vicinity as Jim's hand came around to Sherlock's and passed its burden to the detective. The taller man looked at it as if uninterested. Then he slowly held it away from his body, and his fingers unfolded from around the kill switch. It fell with a clank to the ground at his feet. Several dozen other pairs of eyes watched its descent as well.

Five seconds passed…nothing. A few more...still nothing. Those who watched remained tense, looking all about themselves, but were hopeful that this was yet another of the madman's "jokes." Moriarty himself, looking like the highest class of criminal in the dark sunglasses, smiled beatifically up and around at his audience as he reached a hand out to his side. Shortly thereafter, Sherlock's larger one slid home, leaving them palm to palm as Moriarty stepped forward a few paces, bringing the other man with him.

XXX

Lestrade saw the kill switch fall, and his heart dropped with it. But then…nothing happened; and he resisted John's urgent tugs. He motioned for the man to hold for just – one – second; and he pulled his radio out of his coat pocket to check his other rooftop teams and tell them to be on the lookout for, well, _anything_ at this point. But…there was no response. There was _no_ _response_… In fact, there was no _anything_…as if they had no reception. Or had been shut down somehow…. He banged the device on his thigh, heart rate starting to climb as he began to get the gut feeling that John was right.

XXX

Jim halted shortly thereafter, looking neither left nor right, just staring straight ahead. His hand came up to his face slowly and removed the sunglasses, tossing them casually aside onto the ground as he turned to face the taller man. Fingers of officers all around them rested, itching, on triggers as the criminal reached up and straightened the detective's collar and brushed at the front of his suit jacket. He really did look fetching all black. The criminal's lips were moving, and the surveillance teams with parabolic microphones attempted to aim with a precision born of desperation, hoping to catch a hint at what was taking place down there between the two men.

XXX

Lestrade yelled at his surveillance team to evacuate the building as John began to pull him away again. He was making headway toward the door, slowly but surely pulling the DI with him. And then….

All monitor feeds shut off.

They stopped and stared for a second before John resumed his frantic evacuation, even more so now. Seconds later…

The power failed, and they were left in darkness.

John's heart fell, and he redoubled his efforts. They were at the stairwell now and starting down it, one floor underneath the rooftop. He screamed encouragement behind him as he and Greg ran full tilt down the stairs with several other officers following after.

XXX

"Fairy tales and nursery rhymes, my detective." Brown eyes flicked up to meet endless cerulean. "Have I told you how much I love them?" A hiss went off the top of the museum as a flare gun fired. Jim smiled ever wider, and Sherlock looked down at him with his own strange sort of understanding that Jim knew, one day soon, he would miss fiercely enough to draw him into death's embrace. He refocused. _Flare's off, here we go_… he thought. He and the detective brought their hands up to each other's ears in synchrony, gently placing ear plugs in for each other. And Jim began to sing slowly while smiling up into the taller man's face. It didn't matter that they couldn't hear him…it was too much fun _not_ to!

XXX

The ex-soldier and DI were halfway down when they heard the first strike and stumbled on the stairs.

XXX

"London Bridge is falling down…."

**BOOM!** The roof and last two floors of the first of ten buildings surrounding the museum exploded, sending up black clouds to blot out the sun, scattering bullet-grade debris, and killing every operative thereon.

"…falling down…"

A second and third building went up the same way.

"…falling down."

A fourth and a fifth…

"London Bridge is falling down…"

A sixth and seventh…

"…my - fair - Lady!" Jim practically cackled as he finished, and the last three buildings' roofs and top levels went up in flames, leaving the main force of the tactical teams dead or incapacitated.

XXX

John crashed to the ground just inside the exit as their building shook around him, Greg falling beside him seconds later. Somewhere above, they heard a groan of woodwork and masonry, causing them to scramble to their feet and practically fall out of the door where they came down hard and rolled. The other operatives emerged in similar states. And John tilted his head back to take in the roof, what was left of it anyway. The floor they had been on was gone, and debris had fallen all around the surrounding area. Some still rolled down from where it had landed precariously on other rubble. He considered them lucky to have gotten out at all.

XXX

The silence was suffocating and eerie. Far off moans and cries reached attentive ears almost as whispers. Bits of ash rained down on all like a cold Christmas in Hell. A look around could easily find similar results on all other buildings encircling the museum. Fire, ash, smoke, and death held a monopoly here that couldn't be denied.

And amidst all of this, in the center of the destruction, with fire and smoke burning high into the early afternoon sky, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty stood together. Jim laughed hysterically, almost doubled over from the effort of trying to breathe while doing so. The detective stood by with a look that said he was pleased but not sure why. Although he knew he was happy because _Jim_ was happy. That was no doubt of the most importance to him. He was unsure if his coded message had gotten through to Lestrade, though, or if the DI had gone up with any of the buildings. Either way, he found himself pleasantly thrilled to be standing here with this man, his own private creator of puzzles. For surely there was no one else in all the world who could so perfectly match Sherlock in intelligence and flexible morals?

The detective looked around himself, at the fiery death and horror they had caused. Breathed it in. It was…so…beautiful. Affirming. He closed his eyes, felt the heat of the flames on his skin, as if Hell was already reaching out to claim him as its own while he stood here with its prince. The laughter finally ceased beside him, and he could tell by the sound of the other's soft footsteps that Jim had come to face him.

He opened his eyes once more, gazing on the features of his one-time nemesis. He felt…he felt… A sigh escaped his lips, and Jim looked up at him, tilting his head curiously. The detective then flashed the other man a smile more like the ones that usually graced the criminal's own face, and pulled him close, pausing just as they came nose to nose.

Jim looked deep into Sherlock Holmes' eyes and saw the insanity, his own insanity, reflected therein. Perhaps it was a touch less refined…but still, it was there. And it was his. _He_ was his…

Jim closed the distance between them quickly, capturing the detective's mouth in a kiss that burned more fiercely than the blaze they had created around them. They pulled their bodies closer, lips moving together comfortably, familiarly now, and let the whole world fall away from them as they connected…ruined heart to blackened soul.

XXX

Mycroft had watched with a calm sort of horror as his little brother took part in the blast. His chopper hovered just outside of the flames' range as he sat in indecision. Most of his team was down, dead or otherwise. He scanned the grounds, noting the two figures in the center of it all. He continued looking to the West, where he knew the command center had been set up, with Lestrade and Watson within. And…what was that? He pulled forth his binoculars and scoured the grounds in front of that particular building. There! He spotted them. _That_ team looked to have made it out mostly intact. But… But _how_? His eyes flew back to the two men in the center of the conflagration. What if…? But no. Surely not? But how else could the DI and the ex-soldier have escaped without some sort of forewarning? Even Mycroft's own team of intelligence officers had been caught unawares.

So….

He continued scanning the area, awaiting Moriarty's escape craft, due any second now. But what his eyes found instead took what was left of the elder Holmes' heart and crushed it.

"No…" he whispered as he watched a rooftop.

XXX

John looked across the burning streets and courtyard in front of the museum as he finally was able to stand from where he had fallen. The carnage and casual mayhem surrounding him made it seem almost surreal as he gazed across the 100 meters or so that now separated him from the very man he had once hoped to save, and the other whom he had sworn to kill. He almost fell once again when he tried to place weight on his twisted ankle. Damn. He hadn't realized it was sprained that badly. Still, he looked to the injured limb, and then back up to the two individuals across the way from him. Lestrade and the officers beside him seemed to be regrouping too slowly for his liking, and so he began to limp off in the direction of his quarry, reaching for his gun as he did so. He would end this, one way or another. Then he cursed as he realized it wasn't there. _Well, guess it'll be "another."_

_XXX_

Jim finally pulled back from the kiss when he heard the blades of his chopper approaching as they cut through the heated air. Sebastian would be ready to go as soon as he got it near the ground. The criminal smiled into his detective's face, reveling in the still-present shine of soft madness reflecting back. He thought to say something witty, but then Sherlock grunted as if he had already noted something of particular humor. Jim questioned him with his eyes, imploring him to share. But the detective just stared back with an unreadable expression.

The look made Jim uncomfortable, which he was about to comment on when the man before him stumbled against him. The criminal's hands reached up to briefly grasp at the taller man's shoulders, thinking to chide him on his lack of social grace until he realized his hand was wet…and red. Very red….

Panic flashed through Jim, and his eyes sought out those eternal blue ones once more, noting the new and unfamiliar lines of pain thereon. His heart thudded once, _hard_. And he gasped as Sherlock fell forward into his arms, almost pulling him down with him.

He settled them on the ground and looked back to where the chopper was landing a short distance away. He thought he heard someone screaming Sherlock's name, but didn't recognize the voice. It should be _him_, but he found himself paralyzed from without _and_ within. He couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't act. Here in his arms, a repeat of his life's horror. Perhaps he had not done it directly this time. But all the same…he was the eventual cause.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Sebastian. Right. They needed to move. But his eyes scanned back across the way, in the direction of where the bullet must have originated from. Where could it…? Ah. There. He saw the figure of one of the very few survivors leaning out of a window, looking to be about half-dead themselves. So. A sniper was missed. His gut clenched. _Not for long_…. he thought as he attempted to stand, and with his agent's help, managed to drag Sherlock to the helicopter and load him on the floor of it. Sebastian hopped in the cockpit as Jim clambered unceremoniously in beside his fallen detective.

The criminal ripped the jacket and shirt from Sherlock's pale skin as quickly as he could. He may not be a military physician, but he was a fucking genius, damn it. Surely he knew enough of anatomy to stifle anything truly heinous from happening in the twenty or so minutes it would take them to reach his private medical base? Yes. He had to. And so he did. Finding the main shot had entered from the right shoulder. No exit wound, though. That could be good or bad, depending on the caliber that was used. He didn't want to consider the ramifications if it had ricocheted inside the man before him…

He quit thinking and set to positioning the detective so as to minimize strain on the heart. He used an aid kit in the chopper to apply thick gauze to the entry wound and applied pressure. At least it wasn't gushing. But who knew what internal bleeding there might be?

Jim looked to the now even paler features of his detective, noting the sheen of cold sweat that now covered him. The eyes that always held such a vibrant intellect within were glazed now, unfocused, and the other man's head gently lolled to the side as the helicopter banked into a turn. And all the criminal could see was his mark, there upon the detective's skin. _His_. He had done this. All of this. _Everything_…

And he realized then that the only good he was to the detective was as a means of applying force to the wound. For all of his brains and cleverness, Jim could find nothing else of any use that he could do. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't…fix this…

The chopper cut the air on its way out of the area of destruction, with Sebastian putting every bit of maneuvering into the flight that he could manage that would enable them to reach their destination faster. Below them, on the ground, just reaching the lift off point perhaps 20 seconds after they were in the air, John Watson fell across the bloodied cobbles, his injured ankle finally giving out on him. He rolled from his stomach to his back, looking up at the aircraft that carried his best friend, hoping against everything, and yet finding that he hurt inside no more or less with the knowledge of Sherlock being either dead or alive. It was all too much. Just. Too. Much.

His eyes tracked the helicopter through the smoke as it left the area. It cut a lonely path through it all. And within, James Moriarty bowed his head in silent tears, the first in a very long time. And he held on…and held pressure.

XXX

Mycroft saw it all transpire, his heart truly dying when he saw that the marksman had made the kind of shot he had given the orders for weeks ago. His brother was hit, maybe fatally. And now was the time to sweep in and arrest the two men. Jim Moriarty, mastermind of so much that was wrong in this world, was incapacitated. And by something the elder Holmes had never thought to see from the madman. No matter.

As he looked on, he was struck by the memories that flooded back through his mind. Sherlock, four years old and climbing into Mycroft's bed, frightened beyond words of the possibility of what could be in his own closet.

Sherlock, later that same week after Mycroft had taught him how to be a pirate so as to fight off anything that may come through the portal that was the same closet. How the boy had laughed in glee when his older brother had brought him that plastic sword!

Sherlock, all gangly limbs and unruly black curls as he tried to sit still at dinner, where they pretended not to be ignored by their parents as they spoke of children's games.

Sherlock, crying because their father was always so cruel to a boy with such peculiar mannerisms…but his big brother made him smile again by taking him outside and showing him how to catch frogs with an improvised net.

Mycroft sighed as a tear made its way down his cheek. Now was the time for action. He could capture the most wanted man in the world, secure the safety of millions even. But…if he did….Sherlock would never get the kind of care his body needed right now. It would be delayed, if it wasn't already too late anyway. But what of his duty? If he failed to act now, he would be reprimanded. Severely. And then he would be of no use to his brother at all afterwards. And so, what was his decision then?

He closed his eyes, feeling once again those small, scrawny arms wrap tightly around his neck and hug him close. And he knew his answer. He turned to Anthea, speaking slowly so as to be fully understood.

"Anthea…take her down."

She nodded in confirmation and began to drift them over past the fiery circle of burning buildings to set down in the courtyard where the criminal's craft had recently lifted off from. She turned when she felt his hand on hers, and met his eyes. So hurt, and so serious.

"No, Anthea." He paused, with a deep breath. "Take her _down_." And she felt a chill flow through her, though she had been half expecting something of the sort for a while now. And she understood. She truly did. She had spent five years attached to the hip of the man beside her, and she recognized his very subtle emotional responses. Her attention refocused as he continued speaking.

"We were too close to the initial blast. The concussion hit us and threw us into a spin. I was knocked unconscious, and you were able to bail out of the side." She began to protest, but he cut her off. "It is not believable should I not go down with it. Too convenient that we both escape, you know." Then he shrugged in a most un-Mycroft manner. "You never know, I might survive. People do all the time." He gave a small, sad smile, and then held out his hand. "It has been an honor to work with you, my dear. I count myself very lucky."

She stared at his hand for a minute and then pulled him into an embrace for which he would never admit he was everlastingly grateful for. And when she released him, her eyes were glossed with unshed tears for the quiet bravery displayed here today. Then he nodded to the exit, and she took her cue. If she stopped to overthink it, she might not be able to go through with it.

Mycroft checked his restraints once more as she checked her own parachute pack. Then she opened the side door, looked back once, and jumped. The elder Holmes watched her go, marveling at her loyalty and courage. Then he sighed and kicked the control stick hard, breaking it and sending the craft into an immediate spiral.

He closed his eyes and hoped he wouldn't get too sick. The thought of vomit on his corpse was just too distasteful. But it wasn't so bad. His training had prepared him for much worse than this. His training had prepared him for death. And here it was, reaching up to catch him as he fell.

His thoughts circled around and around. He thought of his parents, and then dashed that idea. He thought of his murdered agents and operatives this day and all the days in his past. He thought of his own elder brother…and wished that things could have been different. Wished that the poor man could have had his own elder brother to watch out for him, guide him, protect him…die for him…

But in the end, he thought mostly of a certain curly haired young lad who used to have a propensity for dreaming. Who played pirate whenever he had spare time. Who played violin for Mycroft when he was unwell. Who demanded bedtime stories of all the fairy tale creatures. And who thanked him again and again for being his big brother…told him he loved him, and never wanted him to go away…

The ground met him with a clash and clamor of metal breaking and bending in unnatural ways, the blades spinning out and into the turf. And the air was filled with smoke for the second time that day, though it went mostly unnoticed as compared to the first blasts near the museum. But within the horrific crash, amongst the debris and burning metal, a man who had never known peace, found it.


	39. Chapter 39

**A/N:** See my End Note for explanation of the update gap.

The chopper blazed through the London sky onwards toward its goal. Sebastian Moran piloted, with another agent present as Co. Between them, they managed to alert the receiving facility that housed Moriarty's medical complex of the incoming casualty and also arranged for certain "other" considerations that Jim had made known in the first fifteen minutes of the flight. Moran still shuddered to remember that wild eyed stare as his boss had spoken to him minutes ago when he had gone to check on him.

"Anything I can help with back there, Boss?" he had called out behind him. But upon receiving no response, he nodded to his copilot, Jason, to take over while he investigated. There was a sinking feeling to this whole affair. He had known it was bad when he saw the shot taken. A sniper himself, Moran conceded that the injured officer had made an excellent shot. A hit between the scapula and spine, and with so many life sustaining organs or vessels in that track. This all meant nothing good for Sherlock. So yes, he had known the _detective_ was bad off. What he wasn't prepared for at all was the sight of his employer.

James Moriarty knelt above Sherlock's pale, half naked form holding a blood soaked wad of gauze to the wound with straining arms, one hand under the other man and the other over where the exit wound was formed. The criminal's muscles were locked in complete tetany, almost vibrating with the force behind them. It made it seem that even though he was only holding pressure to a wound, that he was really holding back an explosion of titanic force. But was the explosive substance within, or without? The on looking agent had to wonder…

It was so odd, seeing Jim like this. Moran had seen a priest once, in his youth, who had seemed to display an equal fervor in that position when knelt at the beds of the dying. The man would close his eyes and seek the sinner's absolution with a complete and whole dedication of his body and mind. So, too, here, did the world's most powerful crime lord.

Moran repeated his earlier question, his offer of aid, mostly in an effort to get the kneeling man's attention, as Jim seemed worlds away. But his words did nothing, registered not at all in the awareness of the man before him. And Sebastian stood uneasily, unsure of what to do. His boss was an intemperate man at best, and even the greatest of intentions could end in one screaming in pain…or worse. Shoes came to mind…. Better to just head back to the cockpit and help call in instructions probably, as it seemed there wasn't anything else to be done for the injured anyway. Time and speed were what the detective needed.

And he was just about to turn away when a twitch through the criminal's shoulders caught his eye, and Moran stopped. The sinking feeling returned in full as he waited. He knew of Jim's "episodes" in the past. Had been in his employ during the last one, in fact. They had lost many men that day… But he was loyal to a fault, and so he remained as he was, and awaited instruction. He did not wait long before the criminal's voice came across to him. So grating in comparison with Moriarty's usually cool and smoothly cultured accent; the words seemed ground out of the depths of the madman's bitter and hateful heart, laced with broken glass and shrapnel. They floated, disconnected and halting, as if the man before him were a beast remembering the methods of speech and articulation.

"What…I _need_…right..now…" Jim was staring down and took a ragged breath in between. "…is the man…who _took_ from me… The man…who took _this_," he nodded down to Sherlock, never once breaking his gaze off of the detective, "from me." And then the dark eyes came around and made contact, seeming to wither and strangle any happy thought they might alight on in the process. The criminal's stare seared through the essence and being of Sebastian Moran, who stood transfixed, with no thought but to avoid ever eliciting this response from the madman on himself. The Irishman spoke once more, pushing through the fear that had hazed the agent's vision. "I will…_take_…from him also… Bring him to me…_**now**_."

Sebastian shook his head free of the memory and did what he was best at. He stood in as second and issued orders via radio call and text. All in contact knew the drill. And they were paid well enough that they should be. The medical bay was ready, with the surgical team prepared and bags of packed red cells ready for transfusion during the anticipated procedures. Any operations that Jim needed to be personally involved in were set on hiatus for an unknown time. All taken care of and ordered in a string of professional training. But the very first call made by Moran…was on the topic of his current apprehension. A certain sniper who had taken something he wasn't even aware of from a man who had never known he'd had it. The agent on the other end of the radio didn't question the order, but Sebastian felt the need to clarify as he ended the communication.

"And Trev? Make sure of it. The boss…he's…bad." Moran glanced to the back of the chopper, though everything was lost in shadow, then turned back to face forward. "Really…bad…"

John lay dying. Or at least, he felt he was. He had no wound to leak out his life from. He had received no blow to his body that had damaged vital organs. No poison ran through his veins. But so, then, why did he feel death so keenly at this moment? Life seemed an impossibility to continue with, so surely he would be relieved of it any minute now as he lay on the concrete staring up into the sky through which a very seriously injured detective had just flown…maybe to his death.

But no. It wasn't to be. Someone was calling his name, shaking his shoulder, asking if he was alright. He wasn't. God, he wasn't. This was worse, so much worse, than anything before. That shot, it was a good one. And it would have hit Jim Moriarty right in the heart but for Sherlock's body blocking its path. He saw that tall, lanky form stumble forward from the shot once more in his mind's eye, and he tried to banish it.

He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, Greg patting him down as he did so, checking for injuries. _You can't find them, not these kind_, he thought. And Greg soon realized this, too, speaking up as he did.

"He'll be alright, mate. You'll see. Sherlock's surely had worse than this by his own hand," he jested badly. John only nodded absently, feeling a disconnection with events around him. His only thoughts surrounded the bloodstain on the pavement at his feet as he allowed himself to be led away. The voices of people around him ran together and blended into one numbing doldrum of sound that washed over him with a touch of nausea. But one voice came across despite this.

"Yeah, banged up pretty bad, but I still hit one of the bastards anyway," the speaker's somewhat beleaguered tone reached into the depths of the doctor's despair and ignited a flame that roared forth with the fury of a thousand suns. He could feel it pour forward into his gut and spread throughout all of his limbs like a supernova of painful emotions. And. It. Erupted.

John Watson, always so calm and level headed. Slow to anger. Peace seeking. No. Here sprung a man with no thought as to the consequences of his actions. Indeed, his singular point of interest lay in destroying the one who had brought his world crumbling down around him. The one person who he could justifiably thrust his anger upon who was present. A sniper who had made one shot. One shot that had unhinged the last pin to John's sanity in this time.

He launched himself at a full crashing run across the fifteen or so feet that distanced him from the speaker, the murderer. And the sniper had just a moment of realization before John Watson battered into him full throttle with death in his eyes. They fell together, and John managed to dislocate the man's right shoulder before hitting the ground. The left arm was no bother either, bending it just so. The awkward angle and the pressure applied at just the right point produced a broken elbow just as easily as when John had learned the move all those years ago.

The doctor's fists found the man's face then, and those standing around them finally began to recover from their stupor and disbelief that one of their own was attacking from within. A tooth broke loose as the man underneath cried out. The nose crunched once. Twice. A fistful of the sniper's hair was torn free as the bystanders leapt into action finally and forcibly dragged the screaming army surgeon off of his prey.

John howled wordlessly and twisted, fighting wildly with his restrainers to get back to the man who had hurt him so badly with his one shot. But the arms around him were too many, and he was pulled down shortly after, Lestrade straddling his chest and kneeling on both his shoulders to immobilize his arms. The detective was speaking to him, but John couldn't hear it. He saw only that stumble from grace. Heard only that single crack of a gun.

Across from him, the sniper was lifted to his feet and helped over to a waiting ambulance. After tucking him into the stretcher in the back, the paramedic closed up the back doors and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life as he reached for the radio to make his call in to headquarters. He smiled as he relayed his message.

"Number 2?" A moment of silence passed before the light flickered on the handset and a different pattern of static rushed over the speakers, signaling that the recipient had heard but chose not to speak. The driver nodded to himself and finished, "We got him."

**E/N:** No, I am not dead! But I am so sorry to all who were reading this and got to where I kind of fell off the face of the earth after chp 38. I honestly hate that when I am reading these fics and find that the author chose not to continue the story. My excuse is this: I have had a LOT of upheaval in my "real" life over the last 6 months or more. Divorce, moving, having to temporarily house my dogs (my babies) elsewhere, changing jobs, changing vehicles, possibly finding that love can still exist in this world even after all of that other bullshit, and now about to move yet again….. In short, life happened, and it sucked mostly. I do not know if I will be able to continue this fic to the end. I certainly have it mapped out in note form already, so the plans are there. This chapter was 80% finished when I stopped writing 6 months ago. I found it today and thought, Dammit, I should just finish it up a bit and post it. Even a little bit further in the story is better than none. Right?

My friends, I truly lost my muse for this fic. That is the main problem. Life destroyed it within me. I can remember feeling such passion and emotion while typing the words for it, almost feeling like I was there with the characters. Now, it just feels like I am typing a story with little to no passion poured into it. And I don't want to do that to this story that I have begun. Finishing it as a half-ass version of what I intended is just not okay with me. Otherwise, I would have just typed out the ending in about 7-10k more words and let it be. I don't want that if I can help it. I don't know that I will be able to update often, or if I even will after this chapter. We'll see. I just don't want the story to build and build and then when you hit this climactic part of it…it flops on the emotional investment scale. I really hope you can understand and forgive me. I love this story, I really do. Typing it gave me a great deal of happiness and an emotional outlet like no other. Thank you for reading it, and for posting about it. It is appreciated deeply.


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